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Before leaving for the land of the free, I, like all the other Vic OE n00blets, was taught to be wary of the ominous and debilitating culture shock. I understand that this might be a serious issue if you are travelling to a markedly different culture such as in the Middle East or Asia, but I could not think how it would affect me in America. I mean come on! America is just like New Zealand right? We eat Western food, have liberal democratic governments, and speak English, what more do you want?

It turns out that I was wrong on several accounts. Firstly, America does not speak English, it speaks Spanish; complemented by a variety of strange dialects which a linguist may study in a few hundred years and tenuously conclude that they originate from English, only to be scorned by other experts in the field for making such ridiculous assertions. Secondly, America does not produce pies.

For apple pies, blueberry pies, strawberry pies, or any other type of fruit pies are not really pies. They are desserts. Perfectly delicious deserts, made even better with Vanilla ice cream, but not pies. Pies, as far as I am concerned, are made by Irvines, sold at Mena’s, and intended to be accompanied with a can of Fresh Up and a short walk up the hill to Uni. What can I say, I am culturally stubborn.

Can you blame me though? Try to imagine a world without pies as you know them. No steak, steak and cheese, mince, mince and cheese, steak and venison, steak and mushroom, steak and kidney, potato top, bacon and egg; no vegetarian pies, no butter chicken pies, no excuse for tomato sauce, no pies with too much gristle, no drunken pies, no soggy microwave pies, no thermo-nuclear-been-sitting-in-the-warmer-for-twelve-hours pies… That is my hell, and I intended to do something about it.

So a pie I did create. The rolling pin was my hammer, and the plastic kitchen table my anvil. I heated, hammered, cooled, and hammered again. The normally quiet community was woken by the roar of my forge, and the bang and clanging of my labour. Many pastry prototypes spewed forth from my ovens, and many were discarded, until finally, to the wonder of the townsfolk, I held forth a creation so beautiful, the religious among us bowed low in reverence, believing it was God himself, wrapped in golden pastry.

However, my dogged pursuit of the pie came at a cost. Much blood, sweat and tears had flowed into my work, rendering much of it unsuitable for human consumption, and what was left to be eaten was not enough to make my effort worthwhile. With much lamenting I laid to rest my dreams of regular pie consumption. But through it I learned a very valuable, very American lesson, as much as you like the qualities of pie, some times it’s easier to enjoy them at home, rather than fight to create them abroad.

3 Comments

1. she

   2 Jul, 2010 at 10:11 am

   Mmmmmmm, I’d like to get a taste of your pie ;p

2. Hi Michael

   11 Jul, 2010 at 8:12 pm

   Pie is a baked good consisting of a sweet or savoury filling wrapped in pastry.

3. Philippa

   26 Jul, 2010 at 11:58 am

   I lived in Canada for three years. There were no pies. There was something that claimed it was a pie, but this was a lie (the crust had been deliberately sunk in, so there was less than 1cm of – bad – meat, and the pastry itself was… terrible). It was also extremely expensive.
   It is good to be back in the land of pies. Enjoy DC, there’s a Hot Dog stand by the White House which sells wonderful Dogs and Bretzels for about what you’d pay for a pie. Not quite home, but almost.