Monday, December 26, 2022

The Year I Lost Both My Parents

On a warm summer night, in our final meal together before he withered away into someone else, my father and I went for pie. It was late July 2015, and he was visiting me in Los Angeles. Over a week, I had ferried him to a legendary deli on Fairfax, a pancake temple in Hollywood, and a chic outdoor dinner in Malibu. He appreciated my efforts, but on our last evening before he flew home, I acquiesced to his favorite genre, so we visited Pie Hole, a hip dessert spot in L.A.'s Downtown Arts District. As we stood before the clear display case, a glistening array of artisan options tempted us: Mexican Chocolate Pie, Bananas Foster Pie, Earl Grey Pie, Maple Custard Pie, plus Chai Cheesecake. I'd watched many salivating customers deliberate for long minutes before this very case, but Dad reached a verdict almost immediately: "I'll have Apple Pie." He commanded a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a root beer, completing the all-American order. And with his pie before him, he paused, then steadily aimed his fork through the crust, spooned on a generous dollop of ice cream, and took a perfect bite. "You know," he said between bites, "if it weren't for apple pie, you wouldn't be here."

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