It’s Pi Day. Or nearing the end of Pi Day. A day to honor an irrational number. That’s cool. I like pi. And Pie.
When I was in elementary and middle school, and I think in high school too, I’d bring home report cards, or my parents would have just had lovely teacher conferences, or they would have just attended some school event, and they’d be proud of me. To celebrate, we’d head to this chain restaurant known for its pies.
I’ve eaten a lot of success-related pie.
I’d always, always, always, order French Silk Pie. And my dad would order pecan pie. And my mom would order strawberry rhubarb pie. (And I’m really sorry but) I can’t remember what my sister or brother would order.
Success. Pie. Pi. Irrational. Success.
French Silk Pi. Irrational Success.
This bakery near me makes a French Silk Pie Tart. I bought one this week and shared it with a dear friend. I told her how I associate the pie with a reward for some sort of success. Man, I even told the bakery’s owner that story.
Little things like that matter to me. Pie. Its irrational association with success. I remember all these little things. Sometimes I wish I could remember less. Sometimes more.
Mostly I wish I had a piece of pie. I need to reward a certain bout of irrational success.