Crack Pie.

It hard to pin down, just exactly, what is so addictive about Crack Pie. The name, for one is particularly attractive in a bad kind of way—the way in which you feel like you’re doing something naughty ‘Oooo I’m doing Crack! Or at least, eating something called Crack…tee hee hee.’ It’s the square-bakers kind of foray into hard drugs, the excessive consumption of sugar and fat, dangerous in that the aftermath consists of bloated stomachs full of ecstasy and a requisite crash on some kind of soft surface.

Did Crack Pie bring about these things? Well, yes. But, as a lightweight baker, in general I lack a threshold cap on my judgment of how much—exactly—I can consume before I fall into a sugar coma. With everything, I always believe I can eat more than I really can or should, often resulting in me clutching my stomach in a sort of I feel like I am going to explode but please, Sir, can I have some more?

In general, I am a chocolate and ice cream type of girl. Fruit desserts, stay away. Cake? Not going to get me swooning. Cookies post-oven? Just not as enticing as cookie dough. But a bar of chocolate, dark, rich, and thick when it melts in your mouth? Alright. For that reason, I did not expect, exactly, to be blown away by Crack Pie. It not necessarily a beautiful dessert.  But it’s good. It’s really good. Imagine the texture of an underdone lemon bar, minus the lemon, with the malt and brown sugar and caramel flavors pumped up. Throw in sweetness to the extreme and a crunchy oatmeal sugar crust, then make it cold, chill it out. It’s delicious, yes it is. And the most interesting thing is, it disappears, without you even knowing.

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