Pi
It would be chocolate, dark chocolate with little bits of sugar. There would be little cracks running along the top where the gentle heat had expanded the filling. The crust would be firm enough to bite into, but yielding enough to separate without crumbs. Who, after all, would want to waste one single morsel of this pie? Before the buttery chocolate filling had even begun to melt, it was already swirling in my mind.
I set to work right away. The crust is not to be taken lightly. It gives a pie shape; it defines it. A pie without a crust is like a mind without a body. As I kneaded and fashioned the dough into the shape my psyche had imagined, I wondered about the stochasticity of crusts. Would this one puff up to the truly astonishing expectations that I had for it? My heart raced with anticipation as I molded the crust into its proper shape, and laid it in the refrigerator to rest. I felt like I had to lay down myself. But the ball was still in my court. A crust without a center is scaffolding without a structure. The filling must be made. It had to be.
Melting chocolate is a finicky and difficult business. No one melts chocolate more than once in his or her life and leaves without one horrific, although not altogether bitter, experience. The cheater’s way out is to add butter. Add too little, and people will ask about calories; add enough, and the thought that this could somehow be detrimental to their health will never cross their mind. My molten chocolate was smooth, rich, and smelled not too faintly of melted butter, but also, when poured into a clear bowl, was a perfect representation of what I thought my crust would be worthy of. With a little dab of flour, a touch of egg, and a quick squirt of vanilla, my pie filling was prepared.
By now my kitchen smelled like the bakery it has effectively become. I like to think that the wood and steel retain memoirs of meals past; little scents of hickory and dill from old cookouts, or whiffs of bread and exotic (or smelly) cheeses. I felt like I was adding to the extensive catalogue of tasty treats this kitchen had helped prepare.
My crust, still slightly cool from the refrigerator, I placed on the countertop. It stood out in a bright contrast to the dark granite on which it sat. Then I poured the glassy, chocolaty mixture into the center. I did not really need to pour it from so high; it would be fine from just a few inches above, but I loved watching the inky syrup trickle down and collect on the bottom. With that final step, I placed the pie in the oven with doubtless the same feeling that parents get when they send their child off on their first day of school.
Soon after, I opened the oven. I spotted a perfect golden brown crust, and a rippling, slightly cracked center. All at once the smells escaped: vanilla, chocolate, butter, almond, and all the meals this oven remembers, washed over me. I took the pie, for at last it was worthy of being called a pie, out onto the counter and promptly stuck my head back in the oven. My nose, desperately trying to find the source of the smell, led me back out of the oven and onto the counter. I took out a knife that was rather too large for the occasion. It glinted as it descended towards the pie. Some people like to wait and let it cool, but not me! I was going to enjoy every speck of my slice, and I would do it when the crust was hot, and the filling drippy.
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