Having grown up pre-fast-food-availability, not to mention with parents who believed processed foods to be the work of The Devil (or at least to be foods in service of the minor Demons of Blandness), I am here to tell you that for me, the preparation of food is love, in the same way that clean clothes or a made bed is love.
If you love me, you’ll make a cherry pie.
Since guest-blogging for Eskimo Bob a couple weeks ago, I’ve had this idea of a home-made cherry pie in my head.
It haunts me.
Now, for you, maybe, it’s not cherry pie. Maybe it’s a lovely lasagna, or a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.
Maybe it’s a Broadway pizza.
I get that. For some, it’s a specific pizza, take-out from a special restaurant, or, for those with beer in the fridge and a gastronomical sense of humor, a large sack of White Castles.
For me, it’s a piece of really good cherry pie. Warm. With a little ice cream.
That’s why this is a short post. I’m off to make pie.
Don’t hate me because I have pie.
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