We were sitting at a table at the Erringhaus Dorm cafeteria at UNC discussing our plans for the long-awaited Christmas break. I looked forward to being back home with my high school buddies – Bill Shaver, Mike Dawson and Dave Gladwell and sharing experiences from our first semester in college.
At the cafeteria table, one of us had ordered a piece of ice box pie and a suite-mate, Dave Randleman, held his hand over the pie for a second and said, “Wow! Feel the heat coming off this pie.”
Which was impossible because it was an icebox pie.
But sure enough, my college roommate, Val McWhorter, put his hand out over the pie to check for heat and Dave proceeded to push Val’s hand into the pie and we all had a good laugh while an embarrassed Val licked his fingers.
I simply had to try this when I met up with my gang in Lewisburg.
So I set it up. I said, “Let’s meet at the Court Restaurant (basically the only restaurant in Lewisburg) when we get back in town and have a cup of coffee and some pie and reminisce. My buds probably thought this strange since we were more likely to go to Jim’s Drive-In for a beer and a burger, but they agreed.
I had been anticipating this prank for so long that I was about to hyper-ventilate. Finally the pies came, and Dave had ordered a big slice of Lemon Meringue Pie. It was a skyscraper, maybe 5 inches tall with all the toppings.
As casually as I could – now chomping at the bit – I held my hand over Dave’s pie and said – you guessed it – “Feel the heat coming off this pie.”
Dave bit, of course, and the instant his hand hovered over his dessert, I smashed his hand not only into the pie but with such force that the pie completely disappeared from his plate. There was pie and meringue on our faces and coats, on the wall beside the table and even on an unsuspecting family two tables over.
We all sat in stunned silence, my buds wondering what the hell just happened while I was thinking maybe I shouldn’t have delivered such a lethal blow to Dave’s pie.
Then we all started laughing and could hardly breathe when the waitress came to our table and asked what happened.
Dave said, “My pie blew up.”
Which was sorta true and the waitress apologized profusely and brought another piece. We ended up paying for both pieces and I left a nice tip.
To this day, anytime I see someone with a big piece of crème pie, I think about asking the fatal question.
“Can you feel the heat coming off this pie?”
You know, maybe I’ll do it again.