Day #6 - Pie of all Pies

This morning, we decided to skip out on big chains and instead try a local dive advertised as "The place where locals eat." I've only met a handful of locals, but it appears to me that they eat well. The greasy spoon did not disappoint! For a whopping fiver, I received a filling egg, hash brown and wheat toast breakfast that meant we could skip lunch.

We noted that the sky was clearing and that this was really our last chance to get to Cadillac Mountain before needing to head home. We climbed into my car - aka The Little DVD Player on Wheels since I once saw a name inside the engine that reminded me more of an electronics company than a car company - and my poor little vehicle struggled up that big bad mountain, but eventually we reached the Summit.

We looked out over Frenchman's Bay, towards the Porcupine Islands and just soaked it all in. It was still a bit hazy, but was really the pick of the week in terms of making the trek. We looked South and squinted, trying hard to see New Hampshire's Mount Washington. It didn't happen. I got bit by something miniscule, "Okay, I've had enough of this being one with nature stuff. You ready to head back to solid ground?"

"This is a mountain. It's as solid as it gets."

"I have vertigo. Didn't you catch me almost vomiting on the ride up?"

"You flew on a Zip Line in a third world country and this gives you vertigo?"

I start making my way around the rest of the pre-determined path along the perimeter of the Summit. Eventually we head back to the car and down the hairpin turns. We stop at an overlook to take his King of the Hill photos (in short, him standing aloft a mountain whilst wearing various sports jerseys). Yes, climb every mountain indeed.

We meandered through Northeast Harbor and Seal Harbor, spying for estates of the Rockefellers and the Stewarts (or ya know, just Martha to the rest of us). At some point, we found ourselves at a rocky beach and I decided for good measure and for some spontaneity points to attempt the water. "I'm not walking on that sand...or those rocks," he said, but when he saw that I wasn't making an attempt to turn back, he followed suit.

I waded in, ankle deep, and almost keeled over. "Holy crap, this is cold!" I exclaimed, not realizing that what he was doing with his camera was recording me not simply taking photos of this event. "Okay, I'm ready to move back to Miami! I'll learn Spanish! I swear! Holy crap!" After a few more seconds, he starts laughing and says, "It's your first dip in New England's waters!"

"And my last! I'm done! Done! Totally done!" I start hobbling out of the water on my now numb feet. He steps in.

"It's not that cold."

"You're from here!"

"Not Maine."

"New England, same thing." I made my way back to the car, expounding on the virtues of Caribbean waters. We continue along to Bar Harbor and just as we've made the decision to head back to our temporary home and nap for a little while before dinner, I remember the Pie Lady. I veer off to the right into her driveway and throw the car into 'park.'

"What the hell are you doing," the New Husband asks.

"Pie!" I say, exasperated. "Look, it's the pie lady!"

"So?"

"See that sign with the old lady holding a pie in each hand? Well yesterday they sold out by 3 pm. It's almost three now. I've got to get a pie before she sells out."

He follows me out of the car and towards the ominous 'pie room' sign. "What's a pie room? Who needs a whole room for pie?"

"I'd love a pie room of my own." We enter the house and there is indeed a pie room. Now, for the uninitiated (as I once was), let me inform you that a pie room is nothing short of spectacular. It is a room. Full of pies. And other baked goods. But of course the pies are the real draw. They sat, like golden orbs on a folding table covered in oilcloth with small laminated signs in front of each row. There were danish and muffins and cookies too, but the pies.....oh, the pies.

An elderly woman enters with a pie in each hand. "Just like the sign," I whisper. He elbows me.

"Can I help you folks," she asks.

"I'd like a blueberry pie, please."

"Which size?"

I eye them all. I'd love a big pie, but I'll be the only one eating it. I know this already. I make the responsible choice for my waistline. "Small, please. Oh, and a blueberry muffin." She begins wrapping them in Saran Wrap and as she's about to return my quarter in change, I ask, "So, are these Maine blueberries in this pie?"

She cocks her head to the side as though she is deeply pondering the question, "What other kind are there?"

"Oh ya know, the regular non-Maine kind...the big ones."

"Well the sign on the pie says Maine Wild Blueberry Pie so I guess it's safe to say they're Maine blueberries."

"Oh I was just curious if people from Maine ate any other kind of blueberry."

"Why would we?" I didn't know. "But I understand your confusion, dear. When I go to Florida in the winters, I feel the same way. They call them things lobsters, but they're really crawfish. I don't know how one can confuse them, but people do."

I thank her for the lesson and head back out to the car with my prizes, err...purchases. On the way out, a couple exiting a minivan with diplomat plates ask, "Is that the last blueberry pie?"

"May-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee," I respond, drawing out the last syllable for dramatic effect. They run, full on run to the pie room to see if it's true. "Quick, let's make our escape before they realize I bought the last pie."

"Why?"

"They're diplomats! I don't want them using their diplomaty powers against my blueberry pie. I was here before them!" I peel out of the drive and back onto Route 3 heading towards Trenton.

"I love you," the New Husband says.

"Yeah, same here." It takes a special kind to put up with me. I know this now.