Since I’ve gotten older, I don’t crave desserts like I used to, but my favorite guilty pleasure, when I do indulge, is pie. Most any filling will do, and the crust, which some folks don’t savor, is my favorite part – that is so long as it’s made with lard and is nice and brown and flaky.
Edgar A. Guest was a prolific American poet during the early nineteenth century, and he seems to have enjoyed his pie just as much as I do. Here are three of his short rhymes that dealt with the luscious dessert, including one that warns of the pitfalls of over-indulging.
I’ll have to agree whole-heartedly with Mr. Guest on the merits of raisin pie, especially if it’s warm from the oven.
           RAISIN PIE
 There’s a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn,
And I sort o’ like to linger round a berry patch at morn;
An’ there’s just enough o’ bitter in the blend to cut the sweet,
But I run the whole list over, an’ it seems somehow that I
Find the keenest sort o’ pleasure in a chunk o’ raisin pie.
 There are pies that start the water circulatin’ in the mouth;
There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an’ sunny south;
Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite
An’ just fill a fellow’s being with a thrill o’ real delight;
But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin’ from the sky
There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o’ raisin pie.
 I’m admittin’ tastes are diff’runt, I’m not settin’ up myself
As the judge an’ final critic of the good things on the shelf.
I’m sort o’ payin’ tribute to a simple joy on earth,
Sort o’ feebly testifyin’ to its lasting charm an’ worth,
An’ I’ll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die,
That there’s no dessert that’s finer than a chunk o’ raisin pie.
            Another of my favorites is a tangy lemon pie, especially when covered with a thick layer of white meringue with the peaks just slightly browned.
            LEMON PIE
The world is full of gladness, there are joys of many kinds,
There’s a cure for every sadness, that each troubled mortal finds.
And my little cares grow lighter and I cease to fret and sigh,
And my eyes with joy grow brighter when she makes a lemon pie.
When the bronze is on the filling that’s one mass of shining gold,
And its molten joy is spilling on the plate, my heart grows bold
And the kids and I in chorus raise one glad exultant cry
And we cheer the treat before us which is mother’s lemon pie.
Then the little troubles vanish, and the sorrows disappear,
Then we find the grit to banish all the cares that hovered near,
And we smack our lips in pleasure o’er a joy no coin can buy,
And we down the golden treasure which is known as lemon pie.
            A pie that’s rarely seen anymore is made from real mincemeat. A nineteenth-century recipe calls for 2 lb. of raisins, 3 lb. currants, 1 ½ lb. of lean beef, 3 lb. of beef suet, 2 lb. of moist sugar, 2 oz. Of citron, 2 oz. of candied lemon-peel, 2 oz. of candied orange-peel, 1 small nutmeg, 1 pottle (2 quarts) of apples, the rind of 2 lemons and the juice of 1, and ½ pint of brandy. The meat and suet was chopped very fine, while the fruit was of a coarser consistency. Everything was well mixed and sealed in a jar, where it was allowed to ferment for a few weeks. My mother made good mincemeat, without the brandy, after dad butchered a cow (she also made a suet pudding covered with with hot lemon sauce that I loved). Perhaps it was the brandy that caused the wild dreams in the following verses.
           HOT MINCE PIE
I stood upon the coping of the tallest building known
And tried to walk that dangerous ledge, bare-footed and alone.
I started very bravely, then I turned to look behind
And saw a demon coming of the most ferocious kind;
He bade me get a move on, and I started in to run
And I slipped and lost my balance, and I knew that I was done.
I had a wild encounter with a mad and awful beast,
His eyes were bulged with malice, for he’d picked me for a feast.
I tried to scream, but couldn’t. Then he growled a fearful note
And gave one spring towards me and his fangs sank in my throat,
One gulp and it was over–it was much too black to see,
But I knew beyond all question that the end had come for me.
I tumbled from an aeroplane and looped and looped around,
And was twenty-seven minutes on my journey to the ground;
I bumped a dozen steeples on my perilous descent
And left as many flagstaffs either snapped in two or bent–
But when I woke, in terror, I discovered with a sigh
How much of real excitement lurks in mother’s hot mince pie.
Sam Moore
