It was already going weird. We had no pie crust, and I had a migraine, and Erika was not wearing real person clothing. So here is my admission: I’m not high on weed, or mary jane, or ganja, or any other weird name for pot that my dad would come up with. I just took a pill for my migraine, and it’s making me feel loopy and weird and I may have just used the word “cowboy” when I meant to use the word “pie.” The fact that it’s 3:00 p.m on the Tuesday makes it weirder (EDITOR’S NOTE: It was a Wednesday). So we went to Trader Joe’s, where Alec bought cookies for babies which he later said he “regretted” and Erika bought ground meat because she is no longer a vegetarian like we were back in February for around a week. That’s how we became friends. #Michigals. Anyhoo, the pie-making is a disaster. Let’s just say there was a hair dryer involved. And now the hair dryer is sitting in the oven with a whole rack of ribs. This is such a mess, and now we are talking about hickeys. The pumpkin pie is cooking away, hopefully, but this whole situation hasn’t been ideal. But the hard cider was good. Goddamn what is happening. THE PIE SMELLS SO AMAZING AND WE HAVE HEART-SHAPED OVEN MITTS. Maybe there is a God.

— Emma Thompson


This pie is a shitshow. The crust has been thawed with a hairdryer, Katie’s meat is in the oven, no one has a grindr. Or a grinder. The pie stuff or whatever it’s called that goes in it smells good but this crust is a lumpy son of a bitch. The meat is still in the oven but we’re gonna put the pie in anyway because time is of the essence and we gotta get to work. The pie will not chANGE IT’S BEEN AN HOUR JUST BAKE ALREADY WHAT IF IT STARTS TO SMELL LIKE KATIE’S MEAT. It’s gonna taste like ribs and at this point I’m ok with it. Ughhhhhhhhh we gotta leave now and we never made it to the roof. I’ve still never been on my roof and now I probably never will.

So now we’re at the Daily and all I can focus on are Adam’s hickeys and how my pie is doing no pun intended that pie is generally fine. It’s now 6:00 p.m. and I’ve texted Katie to get the ld that stands for low down. She says it will be another 20 minutes. Wait, no she says it’s ready now. Now we gotta walk back to my house and even though it’s sunny it’s kind of cool out, which is bullshit.

The pie is back. It’s in the fridge and it looks amazing. I can say this with confidence because news looks jealous as shit which is honestly all I’ve ever wanted out of my life. Tonight we will feast on this pie with vanilla ice cream and Alec’s weird trader joe’s ginger snaps. And the only non-arts person who will join us will be Pistol Pete. Because he is perfect.

— Erika Harwood


I didn’t think this was actually going to happen, but here we are, driving to Trader Joe’s to get a pie crust. When we get back to Erika’s though, it’s clear this is not going to be a smooth operation, given we only have one hour before work. As Emma Thompson mixes the ingredients, Erika and I read the directions on the back of the pie crust box. “Let crust defrost for 1-1 ½ hours. DO NOT MICROWAVE.” And since we all wouldn’t dare break a rule, the next thing I know Emma Thompson and I are in the bathroom, hair-drying the frozen pie crust, trying to unfold it without it breaking into a million pieces. But despite our inventive defrosting technique, the crust nevertheless broke apart. We only have one choice — Emma Thompson and I grab the hair-dried pieces of raw crust, mush it together and spread it out again. Not too shabby. We pour the filling over the crust and put it in the oven. Erika’s roommate’s ribs are in there too, so we can’t raise the temperature to the right level. But with time, patience and a bit of luck, the pie actually turned out pretty good. (It looks good; we haven’t actually tasted it yet). But we’ve got the pie, the hard cider and some of that other stuff left over, so everything should be just fine. Easy as pie.

— Alec Stern

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