Dear Ms. Parker,

This time, we don't know what to say. That pie. The crust, so flaky. The fruit, so sweet. The little apron. Thank you very much.

It's been what, eight or nine years that we've been together now? Through The West Wing, through Weeds — through it all, you've always had time for us. A few times now you've given Esquire your image — your long platinum neck, your deep Guinness eyes staring out from the photos, your movie-star nose, twitched a little, your long body lounging on our pages. You've given us quite a lot of your writing, too, and it's always really great and really funny and smart. Usually you tell us you need three weeks to write a piece, and even that's going to be tight, because you don't know what you're going to say — and then it pops into the in-box in half an hour, and we don't change a word. A good skill, that. When you write, like when you talk, the words can be jarring, as if you pulled a knife on us and then laughed — that loud, wonderful, piano-bang laugh — when we froze with fear. Heh. But it makes us glad, not knowing what to expect. It stings a little, but we're glad.

So, on behalf of men everywhere, thank you for all the words and the pictures so far, and now the pie, which is really too much. Lord knows, men are hardly worthy of such gifts.

Sincerely,

Esquire

A Thank-You Note to Men

By Mary-Louise Parker

To you, whom it may concern:

Manly creature, who smells good even when you don't, you wake up too slowly, with fuzzy, vertical hair and a slightly lost look on your face as though you are seven or seventy-five; you can fix my front door, my sink, and open most jars; you, who lose a cuff link and have to settle for a safety pin, you have promised to slay unfortunate interlopers and dragons with your Phillips head or Montblanc; to you, because you will notice a woman with a healthy chunk of years or pounds on her and let out a wolf whistle under your breath and mean it; because you think either rug will be fine, really it will; you seem to walk down the street a little taller than me, a little more aware but with a purpose still; to you who codifies, conjugates, slams a puck, baits a hook, builds a decent cabinet or the perfect sandwich; you who gives a twenty to the kids selling Hershey's bars and waits at baggage claim for three hours in your flannel shirt; you, sir, you take my order, my pulse, my bullshit; you who soaps me in the shower, soaks with me in the tub; to you, boy grown-up, the gentleman, soldier, professor, or caveman, the fancy man with initials on your towels and salt on your chocolates, to you and to that guy at the concession stand; thank you for the tour of the vineyard, the fire station, the sound booth, thank you for the kaleidoscope, the Horsehead Nebula, the painting, the truth; to you who carries me across the parking lot, up the stairs, to the ER, to roll-away or rice mat; to you who shows up every so often only to confuse and torment, and you who stays in orbit, always, to my left and steady, you stood up for me, I won't forget that; to you, the one who can't figure it out and never will, and you who lost the remote, the dog, or your way altogether; to you, wizard, you sang in my ear and brought me back from the dead, you tell me things, make me shiver; to the ones who destroyed me, even if for a minute, and to the ones who grew me, consumed me, gave me my heart back times ten; to most everything that deserves to call itself a man: How I do love thee, with your skill to light fires that keep me warm, light me up.

How to Make a Pie

By Mary-Louise Parker

Turn your oven to 425 degrees. Put three sticks of butter and a bowl of water that has ice in it in the fridge. Cubes, not chips. Put the food-processor bowl and the sharp blade thingy in the freezer.

When that stuff gets cold, take out the bowl and blade and put in 2 3/4 cups of flour, a teaspoon of sugar, and a teaspoon of salt. Cut 2 1/4 sticks of butter into pieces the size of a camera battery and drop them in a couple at a time while hitting "pulse" on the machine till it all looks like coarse meal. If you don't know what that is, go look at the smaller pieces of gravel in your driveway.

Slowly pour, like, 7 or 8 tablespoons of the ice water in with the flour gravel and pulse it till it comes together into a ball that isn't sticky. Take it out and knead it on a counter sprinkled with flour, but not too much or the molecules will get stretchy and the dough will be tough. Form the dough into two big air-hockey pucks and cover with plastic wrap. Put them in the fridge for at least an hour. If you forget about the dough, you can throw it in the freezer (but once the seasons have changed, chuck it).

Roll the pucks into circles bigger than a pie. Drape one over the pie pan with a little extra hanging over, and fill it with cut-up fruit mixed with a little flour, cinnamon, and a drop or two of rum, and dot the top with butter. Cover it with the other dough circle, pinch the edges together, and cut some little holes in the top of the pie with a knife. Make a design or write a message to someone, code or otherwise. For a yummy, richer crust, brush with heavy cream and sprinkle with raw sugar from the packets at Starbucks. Put foil all around the edge so it doesn't burn; take it off after the pie has cooked for, like, 20 minutes and turn the temp down to 350. Cook for 25 minutes more or until juice is bubbling out of the Morse-code slashes. Take it out and let it sit for as long as you can wait but not so long that it gets cold.

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