Pie of the Tiger

It's festival season here in the neighborhood, when Catholic, Jew, Protestant and the sinfully unaffiliated roll out, one and all, at our local parish for carnival rides, live entertainment, big sloppy hot dogs and frothy beer from plastic cups. (Sunday is the last day for the Nativity Fall Fest - visit if you can, between 3:00 and 10:00.)

Festival season brings with it the annual pie contest, of course, as judged by our pastor and school principal. The competition is brutal, and this year, Mrs. Spacetropic has entered the fray swinging with her Chocolate Oats n' Honey Pie.

She woke up early this morning, and the kitchen was a hurricane of eggs cracking, nuts chopping and the occasional lady-like profanity. Sometimes I would poke my head in, and offer some unhelpful observation about the ferocity of the parish pie competition, and how many of the entrants were ruthless - with years of experience. "This is really something you train for," I observed, "Like in Rocky III, where he's banished to Siberia while his Soviet competitor uses all of the high-tech equipment, but Rocky, in the spirit of American ingenuity, lifts boulders and jogs through the tundra to train for the fight. That's how badly you need to want it to win the church pie competition. You probably need to spend several years getting the crust right, and make a visit to some wise old woman who lives in a forest and guards some ancient pie-related secret."

"Honey, how about you get out of the kitchen." she suggested cheerfully, one eye twitching.

Later she claimed to just be in it "for fun" and that she was "not like that" when it comes to these contests - but I think I've seen the heart of a champion, and I'm ready to be her ringside Adrian, - loyal, worried and proud.