Tag Archives: truck stop

Custard Pie

Custard pie: (n) a pie made with custard

Some time ago, back when the only thing open in the middle of the night on a freeway was a truck stop, I was traveling—so sleepy that I decided I should stop at one of these establishments with my friends and get something to eat.

We were in the middle of Dixie.

Apparently had not received the notification that the Civil War had ended—because when we walked in with our long hair—a bit grimy and road-weary—the whole place fell silent.

Just in case you do not understand my meaning, this profile was not selected out of respect, but rather, to communicate shock at seeing “a bunch of hippies,” as they would have called us, stroll into the restaurant.

When I have encountered this kind of prejudice, I’ve always found that the best choice is to stay positive, don’t frown back at them, and keep your conversation within your group. Pretty soon, everybody is eager to get back to their own grits and corn beef hash.

This night was no different.

Except all I really wanted to have was just a piece of pie.

When I think of pie, I have visions of blueberry, cherry, maybe apple—but none of these were available because it was the middle of the night at a truck stop, when most people have turned off all their pie-eating instincts.

The waitress explained that all they had left was “custard pie,” which she said remained because “nobody ever orders it.”

I did. I wanted a piece of pie.

It came, and it was a rather feckless confection—a creamy, white color with just a bit of cinnamon dancing on the top.

I ate it and I loved it.

I treasured it so much that for the next several weeks, I ordered custard pie everywhere I went.

I bought one at a store. It was delicious. Some of these pies were not as good as others, but such is the travail of life. But overall, they had that gentle custard taste, with a hint of vanilla and great sweetness.

I was so enamored with custard pie, I decided to study up on how to make one for myself. I got all the ingredients, put them together, did everything according to the recipe, and ended up with a pie pan that never became solid. It still tasted all right, but it was runny.

I was so disappointed.

I never made nor did I really ever eat custard pie again.

Perhaps that’s a formula for life I should consider.

If I have a vice or if I know of a vice, if I try to do it myself and end up doing it poorly, maybe it will cure me of desiring the vice.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Creak

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Creak: (n) a creaking sound

After eight-and-a-half straight hours of driving in the middle of the night, I stopped with my two buddies at a truck stop outside Lincoln, Nebraska.

I was twenty-two years old and had long hair, which proudly lay on my shoulders, defiantly displayed. When I walked into the truck stop, I noticed that nobody there had enough hair on their head to generate a hairball.

My two traveling companions were women—normally quite attractive, but after eight-and-a-half hours of slouching in a car, looked a bit ragged.

We found our way to a table and sat down. Even allowing for some paranoia, we were still the source of a roomful of stares. We didn’t care. We wanted something to eat, some coffee to drink, and to be doing something besides turning a steering wheel and trying to stay awake.

Everything went fine until it was time for us to leave. I stood to my feet and I got a painful catch in my hip joint. It was so surprising that I immediately sat back down, wincing from the agony.

I was scared. Because I was twenty-two and had no idea about pain—thinking a stubbed toe was excruciating—I was terrified.

The two ladies had already sauntered off to pay the bill, so I was sitting there, in a roomful of hostile strangers, wondering why my leg was dying. Gradually, I decided to attempt standing again. This time, though it felt a little tingly, my hip decided to go back to being workable again.

I had no trouble staying awake after that. I was intimidated. I was frightened.

I was experiencing my very first journey into becoming creaky. Fortunately, a good night’s sleep took away all the discomfort.

Now, when I stand up and my hips work at all, I want to shout hallelujah, and imagine myself doing a victory dance.

All of our bodies begin to creak.

And that is why it is so hard to stay hip.

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