That Was Not Pie


Last night, after dinner (salsa chicken, brown rice, roasted broccoli and grapes (Mike is a grape fiend)), we were sitting on the couch. I was bemoaning my sore muscles and contemplating waddling over to the freezer for some chocolate chips. Mike wanted pie (he is also a pie fiend). I laughed, and suggested that maybe “Jimmy’s of Santee” had pie. Mike’s eyes lit up, and off we went.

The menu proclaimed “homemade” pie. The bakery case had individual pieces on plates wrapped in saran wrap. That should have been my first clue. I ordered cherry “a’la mode” (nine years of French makes me particularly annoyed at inappropriate or non-existant accenting) and Mike got blueberry.

I wish I had taken a picture, but it probably wouldn’t have conveyed it. It was like…the crust was raw. At first, I thought it was just the ice cream, but Mike confirmed his was equally as soggy and wet and leathery.

Seriously, crust makes the pie, and EVERYONE can make better pie just using store bought dough. Seriously. It was that bad.

I ended up doing a pie-ectomy, and scraped the cherries and the ice cream off and put them on a separate plate. Mike ate his anyways.

Where is there good pie??


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