Fear not. This post has nothing to do with politics or the election. It’s strictly about pie.
For the last two years, I’ve gone on a writers’ retreat with some friends in Georgia. We hole up in a cabin on Lake Burton and attempt to refill our souls with friendship, food and a little writing.
The retreat’s official start begins with lunch at the Old Batesville General Store in Clarksville. It is customary for me to have only the apple pie. It is so yummy good and I MUST have the recipe. Except that the woman who’s been making the pies for 65 years won’t share.
I’m still recovering from last summer’s project to make the perfect chocolate chip cookie. I don’t think the scales can endure another such project, so we brainstormed last night about another way to get the recipe.
Option 1: Straight up bullying. Get up at the crack of dawn, stalk and terrorize her with our unwashed hair, unmade faces, and unbrushed teeth until she caves. But, let’s face it– this woman probably packs a pistol in her purse to church and still kills her own chickens for dinner on the grounds, so a direct approach might be more dangerous to us young-uns than her.
Option 2: The accountants quickly decided we could stake out the place and see what the delivery truck unloaded to get a handle on the ingredients and try to reverse engineer the pie. That was vetoed due to above stated calorie issue.
Option 3: Espionage! For which we will need spy equipment:
After further discussion in which we delved into the psyche of someone who wouldn’t divulge a recipe, we decided that her secret is probably a canned filling. Why else the need for secrecy?
What remains is this: I need the recipe, dammit. By hook or by crook (okay, so that is an election reference.)