Um. . .have any of you ever tasted a shoofly pie? I ask because I just made a couple for one of the guys in my class,* and after trying a little bit of the extra I baked in a ramequin, I’m just not sure. It’s. . .well, if I were a fly, you couldn’t shoo me away fast enough. I’m not sure if it was me or the recipe or the fact that we used dark molasses because we couldn’t find light molasses–ok, rephrase: I say “we” as though Marty and I were at the grocery store together. What actually happened is that homeboy called me while standing in the produce section and asked, “What do I need?” When I started listing ingredients, he said, “Uh. . .where is that?” So I had the. . .privilege. . .of guiding him through the store by memory: “The unsalted butter is right next to the eggs, Marty.”
“I can’t find it!”
“Look down, Marty!”
“I am. . .oh wait. . .I’m in the chip aisle. Where are the eggs?”
In any case, if you are someone who has ever had shoofly pie, please comment on this post and tell me that you hated it. Loathed it. It was awful. Or at least explain what went wrong. The pie baker in me is feeling very weak and small and sad right now.
Speaking of nightmares, allow me to explain to the uninformed that counseling students are not exuberant bits of emotional fluff, as you may think. Believe it or not, it’s hard to be inside your own head 24/7–constantly knowing why you’re doing what you’re doing, constantly having insights into your past hurts, constantly conceptualizing everyone around you. In fact, after a particularly brutal day last Wednesday, during which I achieved lots of great insights and all that jazz, I went to bed and proved incorrect the theory that if you die in a dream, you die in reality. Au contraire, mon frere, if you die (more accurately: dispose of yourself in a move of great self-sacrifice) in a dream, you wake up in a cold sweat, thinking, “I have got to quit this program.” And then you remind yourself that you have a Bachelor’s in Psychology, and you are really good for nothing beyond higher education.
Take that, medical school students: what do YOUR nightmares consist of?
*I know what you’re thinking, and I wish you would give me more credit. No, my pie making for said guy isn’t part of some 50’s throwback courting ritual. Said guy needs to give said pie to a professor, and he knows I like to bake. Badabing, badaboom.