We traditionally have a meal out with family on New Year’s Eve, and in this season of reflection and expectation, we were not remiss in our planning. We bundled ourselves into the car Sunday evening for dinner at Lark in Seattle.

En route, I thought about my love of cooking. I derive satisfaction from deciding on a menu, then visiting the grocery store. I know the layout of our local grocer so well I often point others in the direction of things they cannot find. (Currants? They are two aisles over next to the raisins.) I delight in chopping things with my knives, lining my preparation space with measured ingredients, and cleaning as I go. Mise en place. I know the best way to peel a shallot. What fascinates me most is the chemistry of it all: how the application of heat transforms a thing or how the combination of two things in a particular order transforms those things. I love the aromas of toasted seeds.

My love of cooking is an observable side effect of my love of eating. Dining out is pleasurable for me not least because I have an amateur’s appreciation for how much skill and effort is required to prepare a good meal. Eating food delivered from a professional kitchen is not unlike a visit to the art museum knowing I can barely draw a straight line. As we were seated for dinner, I was prepared, therefore, to enjoy myself.

The declaration in Corinthians that, When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me, (1 Cor 13:11 NIV) is true for me of many of the foods I relished as a child. I have not, for example, had a bowl of Cap’n Crunch in decades. I will occasionally spy something on the shelf at the grocery and think, I have not had that in years! I am going to try some, only to discover when it is later on my plate at home that it is perfectly awful. (Pop Tarts come to mind.) As Peter De Vries wrote, Nostalgia […] ain’t what it used to be.¹ Certain foods, though, never diminish in their appeal to the gustatory imagination. Pie is one of them.

The dessert menu Sunday evening included Lemon Meringue Pie. Now, my mother could make a historic lemon meringue pie, and the words on the menu alone transported me to childhood days of family events when I knew one of her pies would soon appear on the buffet; the unalloyed anticipation sufficient to try the patience of even the most well‐mannered boy, wishing that the adults would hurry up and declare their readiness for dessert. I let my trembling finger caress the menu as I said to our waitress, Lemon meringue pie, please.

The photo at the top of the page is of that piece of pie. I am not one to photograph my food in restaurants because my instruction in good etiquette at the table made no provision for cell phones, but when that was placed before me, I could not resist the impulse. Look at that marvel of deconstructed pie goodness! Those are pomegranate seeds, for God’s sake! I nearly lurched from my seat in a zombie‐like trance to go embrace the chef. That was before I had taken a bite.

The home cook in me was reduced to a paroxysm of envy. The epicure was amazed. The boy who first learned the merits of good pie was thrilled. My dining companions wondered why I was laughing. It was a Happy New Year.