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The Power of Pie
Sweet treat transcends heritage, identity
Cruising around the Carolina countryside, straddling my new home state to the north and its smaller sister to the south, I’m put in mind of my quasi-native Texas (Yes, I’ve lived all over, but claim Texas as the Motherland). Driving winding roads on a fall day; the sun broadcasting warm energy through my windshield, and a whole heck of a lot to look forward to. My energy is boundless, there are no limits to my future, and because I’m writing in cliches today, the world is my oyster.
Sappy schlock aside, I have a homemade pie waiting for me, just around the bend. Past the industrial parks that make way to gravel pits that make way to family farms that have been plowed under to make way for the New Carolina. Beautiful, stately, brand-new houses in the Colonial style of architecture, with peaked roofs much, much higher than the saplings planted in their front yards.
You see, my friend Christine Priester lives here, in a recently carved out South Carolina census plot not far from the Charlotte city line called Indian Land, near the villages of Marvin and Waxhaw.
I’m much more focused on my pie pick-up, but a little history and social awareness probably is in order on this gorgeous, sun-flecked November day. It’s just 48 hours beyond the presidential election; Christine is a…
