When the Moon Hits Your Eye Like a Big, Moldy Pie | By Julene Snyder

Reading all of these memories of meals with Vince makes me a tad bereft, as it’s been so very long since we shared a meal. (Come to think of it, the last one was February of 2005, when I was in NY for business. Vince was working like a madman, and got home well after dark. The food we shared was yummy, sure, but it was also Thai take-out, not exactly the homemade carbonara that others rhapsodized about. But I digress. Already.)

I recall having Vince and Chris over for dinner at our place on Potrero Hill. My husband, Steve, of course, did the cooking, as I still am unable to do much more than boil water without ruining it. My job was to procure dessert, which was a ginormous lattice-crusted pie from Costco. Steve made his signature pounded chicken breast with a creamy mushroom sauce, tiny spicy potatoes, bluecheese/apple/nut yummy salad and we noshed on sourdough baguette, olives and nuts before we dined.

After dinner we were all incredibly full — too stuffed to even think about dessert — I insisted that Vince take a big slice of pie home for later. A few hours went by, and I was craving something sweet. When I pulled the pie out of the fridge, something looked odd. I looked closer and then lifted up the lattice and shrieked. The top of the apple filling was covered with a thick coating of black thready mold. Yuck.

“Oh my God,” I said to Steve. “What about Vince?” My face, I’m sure, was ashen. I had fed our friend nasty, rancid, moldy pie. (Now I’m thinking that it might have even been his birthday. Nice, huh?)

“You’ve got to call him,” he said. “And tell him. You don’t want to make him sick.” Oh God. Of course I didn’t want to make him sick. I also didn’t want to admit that I had one job — to buy dessert — and I’d screwed it up. I just knew I should have went with ice cream.

There was no getting around it, so I grimly picked up the phone. Of course, when I got him on the phone he was incredibly gracious about the whole thing, but I’ll bet it took a long time for him to eat pie again without a thorough inspection. Come to think of it, I don’t think he has been to our house for dinner since. Hmmm.

Happy birthday, Vince! Next time I see you, I owe you a nice big hunk of pie. The non-moldy type.
— Julene