You should know Lille is on a horse-tranquilizer-level dose of antidepressants which renders the effects of shrooms completely futile. Maybe it does the same for love, too.
Bejan lives on a quiet street named Gaucho, around the corner from a Mexican grocery store, in the sole mid-century modern neighborhood in Las Vegas. The façade of #44 reflects the months Bejan has spent beginning projects he never truly sets out to finish.
There’s the new coat of paint, remnants of the old color only visible up close; the bag of concrete mix from the now-functional pizza oven; the belongings of the man who camped in the backyard for three months and refused to go away.
Emma and I heed Bejan's instructions: Come over earlier, before it gets dark. It gets nice at dusk. We open the small gate to a foyer with a piece of plexiglass for a roof, vines growing in every direction. Emma and I approach the front door and ring the doorbell. Bejan emerges wearing a plain t-shirt and cargo pants, his typical mane of hair tamed down and soaking wet.
An artist, Bejan uses neon to decorate the living room. His handmade furniture is accentuated by tubes of purple and yellow, made with true neon gasses. The dining room remains an homage to his family back home, full of his mother’s glassware and his father’s ornate credenza. Eve’s harp sits, untouched, to the left. When sunset light begins to filter in from the bushy back garden, Eve emerges from the front room. Her hair is wet, too.
Bejan tells me of the dreams he’s had of my tres leches cake, one we shared years ago during a fall birthday. Time to break hearts, I say. I brought a chocolate pie. The only dessert Emma can eat, and one I can prepare in a pinch. Eve stashes it away in the fridge, tells me how beautiful it is as Bejan queues up the music and a melancholic tune begins to play.
Finally, Bejan guides us through the outdoor living room, past the chicken coup, and over to the pizza oven, nestled between two large citrus trees. Next to the oven is a long, weathered wooden table. When Emma and I sit down, the fairy lights turn on. For a second we forget exactly where we are. Las Vegas is nowhere to be found.
From behind the bushes, Dom walks out, six feet tall, carrying nothing but his phone. Later that night we will all sit around the table, and I will take my first-ever dose of shrooms. I will look lovingly at Dom as he laughs through the substances, and perhaps I will fall for him. Eve and Bejan will kiss when nobody is watching. They will think we haven’t noticed the way they look at each other, the way Bejan’s hand rests over Eve’s when silence falls.
To be in the presence of this love, to taste its sweetness, is more intoxicating than the mushroom chocolate. We have all shared a few bites of the alien bar. Eve passes chocolate cubes perfectly measured when we ask for more, the edges melting from the heat of her hands. Yet there’s nothing psychedelic, nothing out of the ordinary. I am only a witness to something I have heard of before and perhaps long to hold: a youthful love.
The pie will come out once the shrooms have worn off. Dom stares at the dried flowers sprinkled on top. Your signature, he calls them. It’s not the first nor the last pie I’ll make that year and we will have together. The flowers will run out eventually, and I will not bring myself to buy more.
Vegan Chocolate Pie by Gena Hamshaw via Food52
Graham Cracker Crust
- 12 graham cracker sheets (For our gluten free comrades, Lille uses Pamela’s)
- 2 tablespoons organic brown sugar
- 1/4 cup melted coconut oil
Pie and Assembly
- 1 (12.3-ounce) package of extra firm, silken tofu
- 3 tablespoons almond, rice, or soy milk
- 2 tablespoons maple syrup
- 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
- 1 pinch sea salt
- 1 1/2 cups vegan semisweet dark chocolate chips (Lille uses these)
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This is so beautifully written. I feel like I was walking through the scenes that were set up like dioramas. Craving chocolate pie now, so thank you for the recipe 😋