There oughta be a lemon law

Dear Country Gay,

I took the liberty of signing us up on Blogger and I chose what I felt to be the most homosexual of all the default templates from which one can choose. As you know, I have the technical know-how to create my own template and may do so in the future. For now, I have neither the heart nor the time nor the Mountain Dew to make this a priority. I hope you understand.

Given that the main focuses of this blog are the (gay) triumphs and (gay) heartaches associated with eating, drinking and cooking, I thought it prudent to report back to you on the miniature lemon meringue pie we purchased together at Whole Foods during your visit to my fair city.


Firstly, I apologize for not making the time to consume this tartlette together while you were visiting. But really, I blame your grieving process for the confusion. Next time, let's try not to have a family tragedy during vacation, hm? But I forgive you and will now explain in mediocre detail how I felt about my lone consumption of the tangy mini pie.

In short, Whole Foods disappointed me this dessert go-round. The crust was quite delectable for a very small two-day-old refrigerated pie, despite the fact it was too thick and heavy for such a petite dessert. Oddly, I felt grateful for the girth (Yes, I said girth. I'll say it again.) of the crust after getting a taste of the unnecessarily tart, dense filling and the barely-there meringue. The crust helped dull my overly-excited taste buds.

The real disappointment was the meringue itself. Even though there was a mere quarter inch of it on the pie, it ruined the experience for me. Perhaps I expect too much from meringue, but here's where it went south for my mouth: I could actually feel the sugar crystals within the meringue exfoliating my tongue. No, this didn't seem to be an intentional technique used to give the top of the pie a brulee-like consistency -- this was within the depths of the meringue.

Because of the texture, I immediately started feeling guilty for how much sugar I was consuming. I did, however, continue to consume it until a sad quarter-moon shape was left. But I didn't feel good about it. I regret not photographing the subject, but I promise to try harder to gain visual evidence in the future.

In closing, I look forward to hearing your rural culinary tales of joy and woe, my sexually deviant friend. Until then, stay strong and know you and your gastrointestinal experiences are in my thoughts.

Love always,

City Gay