Humble Pie

A Jewish website informs me that:  "A mother is a person who seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people announces she never did care for pie."  Ex-squeeze me?  This doesn't sound like me at all.  I'd go another way.  In a loving way, I'd tell the fifth person, "You don't need pie."  Okay, fine.  You know me too well.  I'd never say that.  I might think it, though.  The reality is, I'd never put out a rinky-dinky half-ass pie.  What kind of hostess would that make me?  A lousy one.  It's either a full pie or no pie at all.  That's how this mother rolls.  Oh, sure.  The SJG is happy to go without many things, to sacrifice for my family. When someone gives hubby three Dodger tickets, not four,  I'm the first to say, "Go.  Have fun.  Take the boys.  I never cared for baseball.  I'll stay home and watch reruns of 'Bitch, Please.'"  See?  Sacrifice.  (Just between us, unless Babe Ruth is pitching, I'm happy to stay home.) When my sons bring home In-N-Out burgers for everyone but the gal who birthed them, I say, "Don't worry about me.  Go ahead and eat.  I never did care for hamburgers.  I'll just gnaw on this apple.  Yum."  See?  Sacrifice.  (The fact that I haven't eaten red meat since the '70s is besides the point.)  But pretend I don't like pie?  Never.  No one would believe me, anyway.  Give me a Boston Cream, a Boysenberry, a French apple a la mode, and I'm in an altered state of bliss.  No pie for me?  Sorry.  That's where I draw the line.  I've come too far to deny myself a dainty sliver of pie, cake or anything born in a bakery, just because some stranger materialized out of nowhere and wants to horn in on dessert.  Who raised such a person?  On second thought, "No pie for you."