Welcome to the at the Slice of Heaven 24-Hour Pie Shop and Driving Range. When the going gets tough, the tough get going, but the rest of us will stay right here. It's a place where all-you-all can always leave your troubles behind. But let me make it clear, speaking for the staff and the regulars as well as myself. We are not saying you should actually leave your troubles here when you exit the premises. No, that's just plain crazy, and I for one can't use them. I have enough of my own. I'm Barbara Jean Walsh, and I hope that as you listen in, you'll enjoy hearing about life at the Pie Shop as I share my reflections, golf tips, poetry, and pie recipes, with anyone who passes by. You'll meet some of my favorite people including The Morning Guy, my neighbor Sue Ten, my best friend Little Peach, and of course your second cousin Darnell. I'll take you along on my trips to the Island South of Miami and to the Big City, which is not Miami, and I'll invite you to share your own questions about life and the happiness of pursuit with me. So drop in any time, and stay as long as you like. We're open 24-hours a day...
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Part Two: Golf Tip Four, Eggs Benedict Pie, Peeled Onion Dream, and Barry White
Here you'll learn Golf Tip Four and ask "Whatever Ever Happened To Golf Tip Number Three and Golf Tip Number Two?" We also offer the history of Eggs Benedict—not invented by Benedict Arnold—give you a poem and remind you of that time you were happy just driving along and that certain song came on the radio to ruin it all. Here's the poem: Peeled Onion Dream Pie “Just peel the onion,” you told me. “Peel back the layers and see what you find.” “Nothing,” I replied, but I was wrong. Nothing was just what I found there at that very particular point in time. Now I know an onion is full of space, and space of course is full of stars. So let’s talk about observation, seeing time move, and wondering when and how simple viewing snaked its way through the amygdala to turn itself into critical thinking. To make this pie, I suggest you start out with one perfectly large, unfathomably sweet Vidalia onion. Peel it back until you all you can see is stars, motion, and mathematics. Opine to your heart’s desire. Percolate. Steep overnight. Reflect. And finally inject just a drop or two of raw emotion to give it that special zip. Spread this filling warm over a thick skin of bread dough and caramelized minced onion. Bake in a wood-fired adobe oven in the darkest heart of night just north of Nogales while you sing arias with wild coyotes and breathe in the same stars that I alone could not see inside the onion. Serve in a paper bag. Try to think your way out of it.