Because I'm a nosy fuck, I read this article about what the Obamas will do to the menu at the White House. Here's a short excerpt about what President Obama likes:
Obama has said in interviews that his favorite food is chili, though [Walter] Schieb cautioned about disclosing the president's most beloved dish.
"He'll be fed it everywhere he goes for the rest of his life," he quipped.
The president-elect has also been known to favor fish and pistachios -- as well as pumpkin pie.
Chili? Seriously. That gets a thumbs up from me. I'm all about the chili. Also, I'm big on the pumpkin pies (you can read that two different ways). Now, if he'd just knock off this wine bullshit and pick up a taste for some
American Pale Ales, I'd begin to believe that the country is headed in the right direction.
Funny story about the pumpkin pie. While in grad school, during those last few months when I was writing experimentals and
wondering why God hates me smashing NMR tubes of my compounds on the floor, my buddy and I suddenly found ourselves in the midst of one hellacious pumpkin pie jones. One Friday afternoon, we hopped in the Bobby Boyle Memorial War Wagon and, after stopping off at 7-11 for giant slurpees, we headed out onto the town seeking a pumpkin pie. We hit the farmers market, bakeries, grocery stores, and this big box retailer common in the midwest called Meijer (pronounced "Meyer", not "Me Eye Jer"), all for naught. Seriously, it would have been easier and less time-consuming to just go and get the stuff to make our own pumpkin pies, but being men, we didn't cook much, unless it involved deep frying something and/or "cooking" a frozen pizza. Finally, in an act of not-so-quiet desperation, we hit Wal-Mart. There, in the bakery corner of the megalomart, we found a stack of pies that looked suspiciously like pumpkin pies, but they weren't. While the label said "pumpkin pie", it also had the words "diet" and "sugar free" written on the white sticker. This would not do.
In a moment reminiscent of Bluto Blutarsky going apeshit on the singing hippy's guitar in the stairwell, I dove into the stack of pies, tossing them back and forth looking for something that wasn't this communist version of an American staple. There, at the bottom of the stack, I was rewarded with an actual, honest-to-motherfucking-God pumpkin pie. None of the diet. All of the sugar. It was like some savage had hidden the pie at the bottom of the stack, knowing that he'd come back later to take it home and enjoy the delicacy on his own, probably with the lights turned out and the curtains drawn. My money's on
Sean Astin.
We quickly spirited away with the pie, so that the aforementioned pie hider wouldn't see us raiding his hidden cache of non-diet, fully sugarinated pumpkin pie. For good measure, we went and bought cans of
Redi-Whip whipped cream...each. We ran through the line, tossed some cash at the one-eyed woman working the check-out, and made for the apartment...with a stop off at the liquor store. What good is revelry if it isn't drunken, right?
We each ate half the pie, shooting whipped cream into our mouths with each bite. Later, we laid in the living room, something on ESPN flickering on the television screen in front of us, he in his chair and me on the couch, both supine, holding our stomachs and groaning. It had been a successful foray into satisfying our need for pumpkin pie.
With our stomachs churning and our bodies emanating gas from various orifices, we celebrated in our own
not so quiet way: by snoring so loudly it woke up the old woman who lived downstairs.
God bless you, pumpkin pie. You are a force of ultimate good. I'm sure, had He had some on hand, Jesus would have broken you at the last supper instead. Or perhaps that was served at the last dessert.
