I went to cuddle with Michael last night in bed and grabbed him too tightly around the stomach. “Oh baby!” he groaned. “Be careful. I’m all filled up with pizza and pie!”
That was no lie. Earlier in the day as I was rolling out the butter crust and simmering the chocolate ganache, a jauntier (and lighter) Michael held up a shiny sheet of coupons from an Italian joint we’d never heard of called “Pepe’s.”
“Maybe we should use one of these coupons and order a pizza tonight!” he suggested brightly. When I didn’t answer immediately, he turned sheepish and added, “…or tomorrow night.”
I didn’t know my delay in responding while I patched a crack in the dough would throw the whole scenario into jeopardy. “No!” I quickly threw in. “Let’s do it tonight! We haven’t ordered a pizza since…”
I stopped. I had to think about it. When was the last time we had ordered a pizza?
“…two nights ago.”
I keep hearing the way I eat is gonna catch up to me someday. People continue warning that I’ll end up weighing a thousand pounds. “It’ll happen before you know it,” adds my mother, “and it’s not like when you’re twenty. Once it gets on, it’s impossible to get it the hell off.”
As I was breaking down the empty “Pepe’s” pizza box later that night, piling it into the recycle bin on top the empty “Big Papa’s” pizza box from earlier in the week, I thought all this over. Maybe I’ll wake up one morning and my waistline will have gone from a 32 to a 47 overnight. And maybe someday my fat cells will expand like an army of over-filled waterbeds. Maybe they’ll have to bury me in a Union Pacific boxcar.
But here and now… it’s just not happening.
In fact, at my last doctor’s visit, he said I was in phenomenal shape for a man my age! True, it was the optometrist, but he has terrific instincts about these things.
So if you ever come over to the GreenBerry TreeHouse and you see me eating a sliced red apple on a piece of melba toast, or a big spinach salad with raisins, or a bowl of non-fat yogurt covered in blueberries and wheat germ, don’t be fooled. It only means one of two things: either the pie isn’t out of the oven yet, or Michael’s all out of coupons.
Now for the mother-fucking pie! GET THE RECIPE FOR BLACK BOTTOM LEMON PIE HERE