“What—are you mad? I only had one piece. Leave a note if you don’t want me to eat stuff.” Steve has a reputation of devouring treats. I’m frequently on his case about missing foods I had other plans for—like my mouth, for instance.
“Relax, man,” I turned to face him, holding a knife in my right hand, still pleased with myself. “I was only asking how the pie was. Did you like it?”
“Yeah… it was fine. Very pie-like?” I was confusing him.
“Not too… crunchy?” I bit my bottom lip.
“Maybe it was a little crunchy, but still good.” He was being patient.
“Did you eat the whole piece of pie?” My knife cut through the air on “whole.”
“Yes, I ate the whole piece of pie!” Patience gone.
“And nothing seemed… off about it?” Like the Grinch’s heart, my grin doubled in size.
“Shannon, the pie was good. What is this about?”
“Dude, the pie hasn’t been cooked yet. You can’t even call it pie! It’s apples wrapped in dough. How did you not notice!?”
“I thought the crust had gotten soggy from sitting in the fridge.”
“I think you were a barnyard animal in a past life.”
I don’t have to dig deep to figure out why we don’t fit the Foodist culture so prevalent in Vancouver. There’s not a lot of discriminating taste buds around here. If any.
Like Truthfully on Facebook. I serve d’oh! there. (I kinda do, actually.)