Pie in the Morning: Dear Coconut Cream Pie, Part II

Dear Coconut Cream Pie (again),

I knew the last time was a fluke. I knew it. My oh my have you done me right once again, Coconut Cream Pie. Indeed, you have.

About a half-hour ago, I sat down to breakfast. And what did I have? You, Coconut Cream Pie. I pulled a whole, fresh you out of the refrigerator and sat you down on the kitchen counter and prepared to feast.

But I could not be ready to do so until I had poured myself a good-sized glass of milk. Only then was I ready to enjoy you, my wonderful birthday treat (and no, it's not quite my birthday yet, but it's close - had to celebrate with Gannon last night before I head back tonight).

Oh, God, I don't even know how to begin to describe the joy of eating you this morning. Your perfect blend of creaminess, richness, sweetness, coconutiness, and a little bit of crunch with the toasted coconut shavings on top. With each bite, my senses soar, and I can't help but breathe in deeply, as if I can inhale and absorb the wonder that is you. And then, after I swallow, comes the coup de grace - a mouthful of milk to wash you down. I don't know what it is exactly - it must be some sort of chemical reaction that can only be explained by somebody with the scientific knowledge of my Loyal Reader - but the follow-up gulp of milk is such a perfect, necessary part of the process. The milk blends with the microscopic you remnants in my mouth, swirling them together across my tongue for a refreshing palate-cleanse. And then I cut another piece off with my fork and repeat the whole, glorious process.

I wish I could do you justice. I wish I could impart the wonderful mouth-feel and flavour to my Reader. I wish I could make them as happy and satisfied as I currently am. Like the warm glow that spreads through people when they see an especially-cute baby, I want to send him that feeling from my breakfast of champions. But, unfortunately, it is impossible. And the only way he can really understand is by enjoying a slice of my mother's you, chilled just-right from the refrigerator. And, of course, my Reader doesn't really drink milk, so he can never TRULY understand.

Which is so sad. People the world over think that they know what you taste like, my friend. They go to bakeries or whip up a version at home, only to be duped. What they are eating is not the true you. It is like Plato's famous cave: when other people eat a store-bought or even home-made (but not in MY home) you, they are just tasting shadows of the real thing. Little can they know or understand that the true you, Coconut Cream Pie-NESS, can only be found in my parent's home in California. And how much more delightful and brilliant it is. Put that together with the fact that most people don't drink a glass of milk with you, and you have a really sad state of affairs.

And you know exactly what I'm talking about, don't you, Coconut Cream Pie? You must sing this same song, lamenting the misunderstanding that surrounds the consumption of your shadows. When I wrote my first "Dear Inanimate Object" letter to you, you must have just shaken your head and sighed with regret, for I doubt it was the first time something like that had happened. How could I ever expect that your shadows could taste or satisfy in even a small way like your Truth can? It was ridiculous. It's like expecting all cookies to be as wonderful as a Tuxedo Cookie (and if you don't know what that is, just start thinking of every cookie you've ever eaten as a Platonic shadow).

And so I apologize for doubting you. More accurately, I apologize for holding you accountable for your shadows. It would be unfair, indeed, if somebody came up to me and tried to arrest me because my shadow was trespassing, and that is what I did to you. I hope you can accept this apology. I also want to thank you for going ahead and rewarding me with your True presence in spite of said allegations.

This morning, I ate a quarter of a pie. Which leaves me about six large slices left to eat before I leave for my flight around 5pm. That's roughly five and a half hours. That's a lot of pie to be eaten. I am going to crash so hard over and over again today - hopefully saving my largest crash for when I am on that plane (to avoid all the previously-mentioned horrors of Flying). I just have to be careful not to make that Mother of all Mistakes known as "Eating so Much it Makes Me Want to Puke" and thus not enjoying you, which should be an arrestable offense.

But I will be careful, and prudent. If I must sacrifice portions of this particular you to prevent underappreciation, then I will. You have already filled me with such love and beauty that even losing the rest of you, I would be able to say that you did not get thrown out in vain. You will live forever in my memory (and, like the Phoenix, you shall rise from the pie tray every year for my birthday).

Thank you, Coconut Cream Pie. Thank you for making this morning so wonderfully, funderfully delightful.

Already Getting Drowsy,
CVT