Irish Pie

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
“Seriously, you’re nasty! How the hell do you cook and sweat everywhere. If you drip in that pie I’ll throw up. Stop sweating!” O the joy. As I look to my left, my darling wife is there, staring at me in disgust.

Submitted: July 13, 2012

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Submitted: July 13, 2012

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Hot, humid, and gushing sweat from my forehead as if it were a waterfall. All I want is this fuckin pie to get done and it’s taking forever. My shirt is so drenched; it looks as if I joined a wet t-shirt contest. Nothing that seems simple enough can ever be that simple.

Ever since the strike at the power company, the power is here, but not as much. So this stupid piece of crap electric oven is not producing the heat I need to finish this god forsaken blueberry pie. Pie. I love pie. The type that has a flakey crust on top, moist yet solid on the bottom. It has a slight crispy feeling to it, but not overdoing it. That is what I’m trying to create, yet it is just not happening. If I had thought that I would be sweating as much as I am in this hell hole of a kitchen, I think I might have just left the pie out instead due to the fact the kitchen seems hotter than this oven.

“Seriously, you’re nasty! How the hell do you cook and sweat everywhere. If you drip in that pie I’ll throw up. Stop sweating!” O the joy. As I look to my left, my darling wife is there, staring at me in disgust. As if I wanted to cook in a small, one window kitchen in the 95 degree weather. Standing in the heat in my overweight body, creating a blueberry pie from scratch is something I love to do since I have no intentions of working out.  Come to think of it, I didn’t want pie in the first place. Her constant nagging on wanting something to consume in this what seems unbearable weather, has put me on a journey to the store to pick up ingredients. You may ask why one would endure such unnecessary tasks to create a dessert. Well, the answer is in two parts. The first is I am a glutton for punishment. Not in a sadomasochist way, but in a fuck it way. That’s why I married this particular woman and not the ex-girlfriend who I left for this one. The one before, loved me to death, treated me like I was the most important thing in the world. Her positivity was boring, and so was the constant agreeing. This one, I have to say, would drink and fuck like a working girl, but was a Registered Nurse at a local hospital. Fucked up little princess. Just how I like them. Lady to friends, slutty in bed. Not saying it was a good educated choice to spend my life with her, but fuck, it’ll be fun. Plus I’m Irish, and from the way my life has been, if you’re happy, you obviously are not Irish. The second is if you are going to have pie, and cook it at home, you do it from scratch. None of this bullshit already made pie crusts they sell in the store for two bucks with pre made filling. I’m lazy, but I also like pie. It has to taste good. Homemade always taste better.

Finally, the pie seems to be done. I can’t wait to eat this delicious yummy goodness. All this sweat and heartburn from listening to the constant nagging. It is all done. I can finally enjoy my just desserts. After waiting an hour for the pie to cool, I cut into the crust. Too much of a crunch. As I bite into the pie, I can taste it was just O K. Great, big mouth in the next room is about to come in here and complain. I swear if I wasn’t Irish, I’d have a happy life.


© Copyright 2017 Donald Slitz. All rights reserved.

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