Perhaps because it wasn’t a mainstay in my daily life, perhaps because it wasn’t informed by my parents’ immediate cultural understanding, and perhaps because it was in that rarefied world of American culinary comfort, I turned to pie-making as a coping mechanism. I figured that if I actually made the confections readily associated with those who were tormenting me, I might circumvent the sometimes-brutal circumstances in which I found myself. Why not commit to something so dearly embraced by American culture to see if it would legitimize me more?
oh my god...
