Pie

I have recently checked my Google Analytics statistics and, since the numbers have revealed a neither surprising nor disappointing amount of "hits" to my site, I have decided that blogging about my vices will neither help nor hinder my popularity, seeing as I have, quite frankly, none.

To one of my many vices:

Dutch Apple Pie


or, the Spiritual Quest


(The most Adamant Questioner being my Self)

In my younger years I swore an aversion to pie of all denominations--be it apple, pumpkin, or berry. This hatred stemmed from an unfortunate experience at an elementary school party, where I was given a slice of "birthday pie". I sat beside the pool, hoping to continue to take part in the festivities while I enjoyed my dessert. I hardly enjoyed a forkful. Some middle school boy decided to perform a cannonball and subsequently drenched the bite of pie already halfway into my anticipatory trap. I was doomed thereafter to assume all pie was watery and chlorinated.

Yet, at this very moment I consume a large slice of dutch apple pie: a newly warmed leftover from the birthday party this weekend.

Some of you know we had tart, not cake, at our wedding, since I (and therefore my husband) also happen to hate cake. Tart is a close relative of pie--the crust the culprit. I now find it difficult to say "no" to a large slice of pie, as long as said slice is at least a quarter of the whole. I don't quite remember the turning point.

Pie is not the first of my conversions. At one point in my upbringing I distinctly remember loving broccoli. Today I cannot stomach the nauseating miniature trees.

I remember also a time when I prayed devoutly as I eat pie today.

When I was a kid, Sunday worship was enough. Or, if we were true Americans, Saturday nights. Then I converted. Now I feel inadequate if all I attend is Sunday morning. In the church we are supposed to spend our evenings confessing and our mornings drinking the body and blood of Christ. In all honesty, most times I count myself lucky if I remember to pray before I eat.

Perhaps my aversion to the "Experience" stems from my reluctance to turn my back on my heritage. Or, more plainly, the "me" that is my family.

Why must it be one and not the other, though? Why cannot I have the red and gold cross of the Orthodox church, the incense, the prayers, the protection of Christ's saints--why cannot I have all this as well as the upbeat contemporary worship music, the hope of a Protestant, the remembrances, the fellowship in community? The relationship with Christ?

I believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God and is God come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am .. one. First?

Isn't that Protestant and Catholic and Orthodox? Aren't the followers of Christ all the same?

Can't I have apple pie and not feel guilty for it?

Isn't tart just a relative of pie?

I know my color wheel...

Purple shampoo is not going to fix this.

What I need is blue. Blue toner. Blue anything. I wanted to try Kool-Aid. Zak threatened to tell our grandkids about it if I did.

Needless to say, I am not attempting to neutralize my orange hair with blue Kool-Aid. Although, it worked great when I was a kid. Once I had a pink streak for three weeks. Or at least some of my friends did. Or.. the kids I wanted to be friends with had a pink streak. I wore floor length floral dresses. With built-in jean vests.

The point is, if I put blue on this pumpkin, it might at least turn brown. Blue and orange are complementary colors. It's science. Or the color wheel. Are colors science or art?

I'm not going to try it with Kool-Aid. Yet.

For now, feel free to revel in my foolery. I was going for ash blonde. I ended up with Jack.

-O lantern, that is.

Don't OTC your hair.

I never learn.

I thought I'd be able to dye my hair with an OTC boxed piece of junk, since I was just trying to fix the lower half (which is the last of the dye from before the wedding).

Instead, I once again ended up with a "lovely" orange hue.

UGH.

I never learn.

And I have no idea how to fix it.