Teach Me to Make Meth (Metaphorically Speaking)

 

I don't really watch Breaking Bad, but I'm told it's excellent, or whatever. Sometimes, when I can't sleep, I ask my boyfriend to explain to me the plot of some TV show he's watching or book he's reading, to help me fall asleep (which is not to say that he's boring but rather than his voice is soothing). Recently he chose Breaking Bad as my slightly twisted bedtime story, & as I drifted off, he explained to me as much as he could remember of the show's storylines, start to finish.

There's a lot of meth in Breaking Bad, obviously, because the show is about meth, & apparently at one point - or multiple points? - some people give some other people a tutorial on how to make the really good meth themselves, & then there are more meth-making people in the world, which is exactly what the world needs, really. I guess that if you're going to make meth, though, you want someone with that existing skill set to teach you to do it correctly, because if you do it wrong, you're not just gonna make bad street drugs; you're also gonna blow up your whole block. It's best to have a meth mentor to show you how to make the good stuff.

Recently, I found myself in a situation like this, but there was no meth involved.

Just pie.

Let me explain.

Last week, Nathan & I went to his coworker's apartment to watch the Redskins vs. Eagles game. We brought beer, his coworker's girlfriend made chicken parm (which I'd never had?) & other such Italian-American delicacies, & another coworker brought dessert: tiny chocolate haupia pies. Now, I actively proclaim to dislike pie, & I don't much care for chocolate, & I've never been one of those people who hates coconut, but I don't necessary like it, either.

But this pie? This pie was meth.

Like, I've never done meth, obviously (for proof, please note my not horrific teeth & the whole looking-my-age thing), but I feel like consuming this pie was the closest I've ever come to doing hard drugs because Oh my God, you guys, this pie is drugs.

I talked about the pie for a long time. I think I freaked out Nathan's coworker, who made it. I also took two tiny pies home with me to eat over the next two days, & when the pie was gone, I waxed poetic about it, mourned its absence from my taste buds, wondered if I'd ever get to have it again.

Then, on Thursday, Nathan came home with a chocolate haupia pie. His coworker made us a whole one! I was going out of town the next day, so obviously I consumed two pieces of pie that night to make up for the fact that I might never have it again.

Except I will! Because his coworker gave us the recipe, which you can find here, & he also told us his secrets alterations to improve the final product, which you can't find anywhere because I'm not sharing classified information. So now I can make meth pie on my own, & every day will be a day filled with chocolate haupia happiness, or at least until my body gets pissed at me for it. That's how drugs work, you know.

That's all, I guess. I just wanted to tell you about how much I apparently love pie now & how delicious addiction can be & how I convinced my drug dealer to teach me to make drugs.

JUST CALL ME WALTER WHITE.

Carry on.