Once, in a restaurant, I watched a group of friends one by one excitedly order slices of warm, homemade apple pie a la mode from the smiling waitress. When she got to me, I said, “I’ll just have the mode.”
Lord knows, I am not un-American or anti-motherhood, but if I am going to invest precious calories on something sweet, it certainly isn’t going to be apple pie. Unlike Mark Twain, who, in 1878, lamented how much he missed apple pie while traveling in Europe; or 19th century English novelist Jane Austen, who said, "Good apple pies are a considerable part of our domestic happiness," I find the stuff terribly dull.
As far back as 14th century England, someone came up with the idea to take a beautiful autumn object d’art, crisp and healthy and delicious on its own, and cook it to death with sugar in a flimsy crust.
Nope, I’ll pass on the pie and choose instead a sliver of chocolate mousse-whipped cream torte cake. Or a creamy crème brulee. Or, heck, a handful of Poppycock. But I am not altogether blind to this American obsession, so for you, Mark Twain, and for the one out of four Americans who prefer apple over any other flavor of pie, I give you two of my pie recipes that I hate the least.