Lebo - A Commonplace Book of Pie

We ought to make the pie higher.

George W. Bush

Rilke was devoted to polishing furniture. Jackson Pollock baked pies.

David Markson

Contrary to popular opinion, pumpkin pie-lovers are adventurous, quizzical, good in bed and voluminously communicative. No need to ask a pumpkin pie-lover if hell call ahead for reservations. Hell arrive at the restaurant early, order a drink and have the waitstaff in his fan club before you get off work. By the time you arrive he might even have the hostesss number. Do not trust him to say the right thing to your parents; do trust him to charm your friends. Consider for a moment a can of Libbys pumpkin puree, how a pumpkin does not have a choice, but if it did, it could become a porchlight or a smear on the street. It could be hollowed and hallowed and filled with soup and served in a bistro to people who do not smash pumpkins. It could rot, unsold, in the field, or fill this can of future pie. Do you see now why pumpkin pie is not boring? If it were, more people would know how to talk to bartenders.

Only one woman alive today would say her favorite pie is mincemeat. She makes hers with green tomatoes and mixed assorted meat-stuffs. Her grandchildren hide her slices in their mouths and spit them into milk glasses when she gets up to answer the telephone. No thank you. Now is not a good time. She wanted to be a writer. She took photographs and painted, wore Isadora colored scarves that covered her hair like hair, was the most beautiful woman in town and justifiably vain. She likes to imagine her movements as gusts of wind blowing her children around the world, her little boats.

Children are born to devour whats set before them, especially on factory tours. In Crayola factories, wax cools in cylindric wrappings while plastic-eyed field trippers fill their goggles with inedible hue. But what does this have to do with pie in the sky, antioxidants, or the favorite breakfast of certain birds? Blueberries burst beneath teeth and heat all the same, so youd never know the pale of their innards. The blueberry pie-lover knows. To him, a pert slice and a little lemon is the difference between wanting to view paradise and viewing it.

The Swedish have a word for hunger that sounds like ice before its scraped off a windshield and, when held in the mouth, glints like a metal tooth. The lingonberry pie-lover is like this word, so he collects antique orthodontia and cultivates peculiar hungers. The scent of gasoline evaporating from asphalt, the sneer of grass on a good dress. Being told no or slow down when in proximity of food makes the lingonberry pie-lover capable of aggravated misdemeanors. I dont suggest testing this assertion.

People who love chocolate cream pie move through this world in a swarm of music. Their cars leak basslines; their exhaust sings from the dark of the pipe. Periodically they experiment with the softness of their genders and find them lacking every time, wear skirts to feel the hair on their thighs and pants to bind their bodies into the clean lines of a park bench. They invite you to sit down. The chocolate pie-lover would like to convince you that her height is three inches above the crown of her head. She isnt lying, exactly. Shes creating the truth, believer by believer, just as you would if you too had a voice as big as a church.