The time has come

Of all the stories I could tell about pie, I've decided to tell one. This is about Chess pie. This didn't happen to me. It happened to my brother.

So my brother was living in Baltimore for a little while. In fact, I sort of helped him move into the house where he lived there, and spent a couple nights sleeping on a mattress on the floor of his room. It was not a level floor by any means. The floor also creaked. So it was hard coming in at four in the morning after a 12 hour drive back from Atlanta after the Chattahoochee Singing Convention without waking anyone else up. It was an old house. So the guy who owned the house was kind of a character, to say the least. Which later turned to creepy. By the time he moved out, my brother suspected that he was stealing and/or reading his mail. He was a relatively wealthy man who made it reasonably big in the perfume industry. My brother was making a chess pie at one point, and this gentleman came in and asked what he was making, and asked how it was made and they talked for several minutes about chess pie while my brother finished preparing it for baking. He went to the oven to turn it on, and the owner said, "Oh, the oven's broken." So my brother couldn't bake his chess pie. He thought it was interesting that he'd waited to tell him that the oven was broken until the pie was ready to go into the oven.

I don't know what became of that unbaked chess pie. Maybe it was thrown away. Maybe it was taken to someone with an oven. Maybe it was frozen until it could be taken to someone with an oven. Maybe it was frozen until the oven was repaired. Maybe it was eaten raw. Maybe it was eaten raw by squirrels. These are all possibilities, some of them much more likely than others.