IN PRAISE OF PIE

I had pie for dinner the other day. Let me inform you that doing so is not good for a peaceful night's sleep.
But I shouldn't blame the pie. It was good pie, and I like pie.
Pie is a food that speaks of warmth and wholesomeness.
Just don't eat half a pie before bedtime.

It was a real pie. Peach!
Not sausage and anchovies - which is only pie if you're an east-coaster.
That explains why there were no black olives either.
Olives and peaches, yecccchhh!
Honestly!

And everyone knows that unlike east-coast grease-pie, real pie needs to be washed down with coffee. Or milk tea.  Not beer.
It may have been the coffee that made me sleep fitfully. Beer simply knocks you out, whereas coffee makes you happy.
If I were a sports-watching man, I would probably be high as a kite after the game - two pots of coffee if you factor in the half-time extravaganza - and alertly bouncing off the walls, rather than sodden insensate like most American men after Sunday football.
There may have been some athletic contest on Sunday, but I do not know.
The pie was NOT connected with a sporting event.

It was just pie, all by its own existential self.


PIE DOES NOT NEED A REASON!

One problem with pie is that after burying my snout in a wedge, I end up with goo all over my whiskers.
I would offer to let someone lick them clean, except that my beard and moustache normally have a faint reek of tobacco and coffee, and that first smell mentioned might conflict with the fresh peach taste she would expect.
Assuming it's a she.

Many young ladies do not associate the sooty saveur of Rattray's Black Mallory (a fine full English mixture) or Rattray's Hal O'The Wynd (excellent ready rubbed red flake) with sweet pie goo. That's unfortunate, as matured tobacco has a faint fruitiness from fermentation, but there it is.

[As an important detail, my moustache also perfumes discretely of cigarillos - one cannot take a half hour pipe break during the working day, on the street outside the office. But cigarillos only take a few minutes. Never cigarettes. Cigarettes are the trashy teenage boys of the tobacco world. It's question of standards and taste.]

Also, very few young ladies have quite the tolerance for a hefty dose of caffeine that grown-up men such as myself possesses; they just can't hack it, it's too much for their delicate systems.
At least that's my theory. It would explain why I seldom see actual young ladies in coffee shops, unless they work there....... behind the counter, staring with open-eyed panic at the vulgar consumer-whores and shrill tattooed heffalumps ordering a grande hazelnut toffee mint brickle cappufrappé.
Young ladies drink milky tea with a modicum of sugar.
Not crap that tastes of hazelnut toffee mint brickle.

Dolled-up steam-drinks are for dolled-up trollops.
Young ladies have MUCH better taste than that.


Ideally, I would have invited a young lady over for some pie. We could've shared a pleasant hot beverage with milk. Tea. Or hot cocao, with whipped cream.
But probably milk tea.

Had I done so, I would NOT have been up smoking Rattray's fine tobacco (both Black Mallory AND Hal O'The Wynd - two bowls each) till shortly after four in the morning.
Instead I'd be licking cream off my chops. Or hers.
I will open up a tin of Esoterica's "And So To Bed" sometime soon - it might induce sleep.
It's a fine mixture, rich with dark Virginia, Maryland, Latakia, and Greek leaf.
Even without a young lady to wean me from caffeine, and eat my pie.

If there WERE a young lady present, she too might appreciate the same tobaccos, whether the fine product from Esoterica Tobacciana mentioned above, OR that lovely Black Mallory by Rattrays.
I would gladly share them with her, and I've got plenty of briars.
We could both smoke the dark stuf.
It's fragrant!


I must make sure to get more pie.
Pie is happiness.
3.14



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