there's a book called american pie: slices of life (and pie) from america's back roads and it's written by a woman named something i forget and you. should. read. it.
what this woman did was, she traveled all over america in her car named "betty," in search of pie. good pie. she took nothing but back roads and stopped in teensy tiny towns where, if they don't know how to make pie here, faggedaboudit.
it's a charming story, chock-full of tidbits about the local folk, their habits, their lifestyle. their love of pie. and when i say "pie," i mean "life."
these people - and the author of the book who met them (often in very unusual ways) - knew a thing or two about "pie."
they knew that to eat it right out of the oven was a mistake. you gotta wait.
they knew that to make it with not fully ripened fruit was a mistake. wait.
they knew that no matter how good it is, it's better with a friend.
they knew that eating it out on the front porch stoop just about the time the lightning bugs started to dance was way better than eating it in, say,
the sky.
