thanksgiving aboboros

Last week i made a pumpkin pie that was so delicious my clitoris fell off. For serious, it was like, 'Sorry Cill, I can't compete with this shit. Peace. (Thunk.)'

It was disturbingly delicious. Mark and I tasted it at the same moment and both froze. I didn't know what was happening. Mark started talking in one word sentences: 'This. Is. The. Best. BEST. Pie. I've. Ever. Had.' My eyes felt like they were exiting my head in slow motion.

Context: I'm not a very good baker. I don't do it often, and when I do the results are middling at best. I almost never eat desserts and sweets and stuff, so the art of making them has never been a priority.

But I found myself two days before Thanksgiving with a long list of cooking and baking tasks because my GERMAN fiance said he would love to celebrate the holiday, and I don't have a job so felt obligated to make it happen.

Something I learned about Brazilians: They don't make pies. Something else: They don't seem to want you to make pies either.

Not one of the zillion shops I looked in had the things you buy before Thanksgiving. NOT ONE OF THEM.

So I had to make pumpkin puree, which involved buying a pumpkin, severing it Jeffrey Dahmer style, piling it into the oven Albert Fish style, pulling it out and peeling off the skin Eddie Gein style, blending it in batches Richard Chase style, and then cramming it all into tupperware like Dahmer again.

I also had to make pie crust. Do not read blogs that tell you it is easy. It is not easy. Or maybe the actual assembling of the dough is kind of easy, but the shit makes a huge mess and every second of it is a shrill reminder of how unhealthy pastries are, fistfuls of butter and flour and sugar. The only ingredient I actually include in my diet was the ice water.

Another necessity: 'pumpkin pie spice.' You can of course just buy a jar of this shit in the USA. But not here. Because Brazil tries to thwart pie. This was easy enough, just cinnamon and nutmeg and clove and ground ginger, but this seemed like a lot of things to to buy and then only use tiny amounts of.

So anyway, all this felt like a trail of rabbit holes, but finally culminated in a pie in the oven. And I had to admit that it smelled like nirvana-paradise-heaven. It also looked beautiful, because the puree was a very vivid bright orange. When i buy a can of puree in the states it's a more browny orange. This was like stoner-vision.

Anyway, I was cooking tons of other things and they smelled nice too and I let the pie cool and set in the fridge and forgot about it until we were at the table and it was time for dessert.

And then as you know I tasted it and my clitoris quit its job and left town.

Furthermore, something you should know about Mark: whenever something tastes good he says he wants to put his dick in it. He's said it about cashew cream, butternut squash bisque, and vegetable risotto. And he of course said it about this pie.

And a thought occurred to me.

"Do it," I said. "Put your dick in it. There's nobody else here, it's just us. No one else would ever know."

He hesitated.

I emphasized, "This might never be possible again. Nothing is stopping you right now in this moment from putting your dick in a pie at the Thanksgiving table. Do it. Put your dick in it. Put your penis in the pie."

And he said: "I would actually rather like to eat it."

Not after serious consideration, but he chose eating this pie over a ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY to put his dick in a holiday dessert. THAT'S how delicious it was.

We have been trying since to figure out what is going on here making this pie so special. We made two more pies, thinking they wouldn't be as good. The plan was to make one for our neighbors who are always giving us fresh veggies from their garden. But we made two, because we figured my beginner's luck would run out and it wouldn't be good and our neighbors would choke on its horrible taste and die and it would be our fault and no more free veggies.

But we tasted the control pie and it was every bit as terrifyingly delicious as the Thanksgiving one. Mark had it for breakfast, with lunch and before and after dinner.

And our stoic elderly german neighbor saw me on the sidewalk later and shouted, with a GIGUNDUS GRIN, 'The cake is fantastic good!'

And his wife returned the plate within two days and asked for the recipe. She too is now on the case for what is making it so confounding-ly good. And she's going to make it for her family at christmas.

We think it's a combo of awesome Brazilian produce, the American kinds of spices, and maybe even the condensed soy milk i found somewhere, which was surprisingly not disgusting.

This mystery may never be solved. and Mark will likely never put his ween in a pie. And I, clitless, return to the familiar, quiet peace of no desserts.