postcard-from-l-a: I’m pretty sure my wife is trying to murder me with pie
I’m at the age where nothing hurts or everything hurts. Before a recent 5K race, one of those pre-feast turkey trots that have become all the rage, I took aspirin before I ran, not after.
My buddy Gary was there too, roughly the same age, though a little less lined and shopworn (see selfie). Note that I am also at the age where, when I take a selfie, it looks as though someone is gnawing on my foot. And that I have inhaled something illegal, which I never would.
In any case, the race went well, me finishing well before a woman dressed in a full-length Pilgrim prom dress and behind most everybody else, including mothers pushing strollers and a World War II vet with a walker and a rifle.
As with all social endeavors, my goal was simple survival. And I think I exceeded that. Later that morning, I was able to set up the extra tables for the family feast without excessive whimpering. I credit the pre-race aspirin, as well as a willingness to plow through even the most rigorous physical challenges.
As reward, I am now on my 73rd slice of leftover pumpkin pie. Don’t know if this happens at your house, but my wife is never able to accurately estimate the amount of food we need, so she overbuys.
I think there were 16 guests at our Thanksgiving feast. Just to be safe, Posh bought 32 pies. Turns out one would’ve been quite enough, this being L.A. and all, where gluttony — or even minor indulgence — is a lost art.
So now I am on my 74th slice of leftover pumpkin pie ... no, wait, this is No. 75, and no matter how many miles I would’ve run in my pre-feast penance — 10, 100, 50,000 — it would not have been enough to offset this volume of pie. And the two turkeys.
I’m pretty sure my wife is trying to murder me with food. In honesty, it’d be easier if she’d just poison me. Or tell me long stories about the personal lives of her co-workers. That would pretty much do me in, though I pretend to hang on every word out of my Lutheran sense of obligation.
OK, I’m now reaching for my 78th slice of pie. I find that after the 50th piece, the overwhelming guilt is replaced by a feeling of personal accomplishment. I mean, how much pie can one elite runner eat?
On the horizon is the L.A. Marathon, which I hope to run if my buddy Edgar doesn’t wimp out. Each time we have beer together he says, “We’re still running the marathon, right?” to which I reply sarcastically, “Yeah, like always.”
Edgar scared me the other night when he showed up 20 pounds lighter, which makes me think he is serious about this L.A. Marathon, which I considered a running joke, so to speak. I mean, I ran the thing once before and it almost killed me.
I’m pretty sure my wife is trying to murder me with food. In honesty, it’d be easier if she’d just poison me. Or tell me long stories about the personal lives of her co-workers.
About Mile 14, I thought the top of my head might blow off, and then some guy who looked like Jesus stepped on my heel. If he hadn’t been barefoot, and dragging a large cross, he could’ve done some real damage.
“Sweet Jesus,” I said, turning in disgust. And there he was.
So now I’m on my 80th piece of pumpkin pie. My goal is to finish all the leftover pie by Christmas, at which time Posh will purchase another 30 — just in case — and I will have to scarf those down too, while watching old Hallmark movies starring Marlo Thomas, my first and only crush.
After that, I might be training for a marathon, I might not, it really depends on Edgar and whether he’s pranking me or not. None of my friends ever tell the truth, which is probably what I like best about them.
Whew, I’m now on my 95th slice — a personal record. Overindulgence like this used to concern me. Now I see it as just the price you pay for being a good husband. See, Posh is Sicilian, and to leave too much food behind after a Sicilian feast insults the hostess and makes her think it wasn’t tasty.
Really, really good, this pie. Sure, I’ll have another.
Sweet Jesus.
Twitter: @erskinetimes
MORE FROM THE MIDDLE AGES:
Why millennials love Friendsgiving: No one will judge you if you can’t cook a turkey
‘10 simple rules for dating my millennial daughter’
Eat your way across L.A.
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