As usual, I ate too much on Thanksgiving. As I sat, groaning and belt loosened, on the sofa, I also realized that– among my many other significant personal issues — I am helpless in the presence of pumpkin pie.
Usually my self-discipline when it comes to food is pretty strong. I’m not much of a snacker. Typically, I eat a satisfying meal and I am done until the time for the next meal has come. There are certain foods, however, that completely overwhelm my feeble resistance, and pumpkin pie is one of them. If it is in the house, I am going to eat it, no matter how uncomfortably full I am and how embarrassed I am at my cursed weakness.
Why is this? Is it the firm yet squishy, mildly spicy goodness of the filling? Is it the crisp, flaky exposed crust, or the moist, chewy crust under the filling? Is it the delicate dollop of whipped cream framed against the brown skin of the wedge of pie? Or is it that, deep down, the familiar taste of pumpkin pie brings back warm memories of childhood, of eating pumpkin pie for dessert at gatherings of extended family on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and other occasions — and then sneaking an extra piece late at night, when no one is looking?
Whatever the reason, the piece of pumpkin pie is like the Borg, and I am about to be assimilated. Resistance is futile!