tropical tastes in the frozen wastes.

the weatherman is telling me it just might snow a bit today.
uh-huh.
it'll warm up a little bit, eventually...
but first,
a little reminder from on high will waft down in icy hexagonal
hate-crystal format to make sure it's always in our minds that
nature wins.
ew.
i should've guessed some sort of suckiness was assailing us
when the whipping whirls of wind were buffeting my bedroom
in the night, keeping me from all worthwhile rest as i listened
to the howls of the angry airflow.
yuck.
wind is never a good sign, unless you're a sailboat.
y'know what i need?
something islandy.
something tropical.
something that has got the taste of warm weather and sunshine in it.
i need a coconut creme pie, neighbors.
and y'know what's even better news?
i HAVE one.
check the teleport:

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
and it's not just some weak-sauce entry-level basic coconut crap.
no way.
i've got all the hottness in one place,
and there's molto molto zest grated all up in that b!tch.
boom.
what?
what's all that sweet, gooey red magic on top?
that's strawberry-lime compote,
with lemon extract, key lime juice and zest, and tapioca to thicken it up.
tangy tartness and sugary sweetness and sticky fruit sorcery?
that's expert.
and the crust?
coconut flour, crema de coconut, vegan butter, coconut flakes, vanilla,
and more lime zest.
it's like a macaroon shortbread cookie bowl, waiting for that creme
to fill the void between berries and bottoms.
it's got a whole lot of yum4tum, duders
and that creme filling is the holy word of the prophet.
ummmm,
maybe not that, exactly, but it's flippin' delicious.
coconut milk, crema de coconut, sweetened key lime juice, a dash of vanilla,
a little lime oil, and some custom-blended thickening agents make that stuff
the firmest and the freshest blend of texture,
with the best in contrasting flavors- rich, creamy, smooth coconut,
and sharp, citrusy lime.
both ends of the spectrum, working in concert to dominate the pie game?
i doo-doo that freaky sh!t, because i've got to eat it, after all.
i mean,. i'm not trying to munch up on some mincey minky mealy mess, am i
don't be dumb.
i want all the fire and explosions,
i want all the platinum-plated sparkle-magic,
i want the complicated superfancy unnecessary jauns.
too much is the right amount,
and anything less is not nearly enough.  
plus,
there's just a tiny goobieblop of frosting on each of those coconut cookie stars,
for that exxxtra exxxtra extra cute added touch of flavor.
huh?
oh.
c'mon, kids-
you KNOW i'm into the little extras,
like that zesty surprise in every bite,
and the frosting on cookie on fruit on creme on cookie overactivated action.
yuuuuuuuuuuuuup.
and what a rewarding bite this baby has, y'all.
i mean it:

this mother-'ucker tastes like summer, son.
even when wintry aftershocks are rocking their way through the woodsly goodness.
i've got sunshine in my mouth.
that's no joke.
***********
all acquaintances, and no friends?
ugh.
it's a hard style,
being an elusive, reclusive, exclusive, obvious and innacessible
heavy-handed hot-fire-spitting hermit in these hills.
i say that often, but only because it's perpetually relevant.
i'm mostly at home in my castle, feeding the birds and flipping pancakes
whenever i'm not just flipping out over the failing luxury
of the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
it's a doubtful redoubt of ramshackle ruins and really real life lessons.
it is.
i'm reluctant to relinquish the reins of this righteous relic of white mountain leisure.
i've grown so attached to this sinking ship,
and i don't know what i'd do if i didn't allocate so many hours to metaphoric bailing
buckets of bilge and brine out of the bottom of this derelict battle barge.
damn.
all hands on deck?
they ARE.
...both of them,
and i'm using the pair of 'em to type away at this S.O.S message in a blog-bottle.
it's all really happening.
pies and cakes and sh!t,
and spanning time in an empty house,
and interactive overreactive creative maniacal minstrel-show monologues
at the only other place i ever really go.
uh-huh.
all my social skills are derived from a juggernaut battering-ram of nattering-on
in the live-action live-studio-captive-audience call-and-respond catastrophe
of tattoo times in the bleak back room of the studio.
so,
if i'm not there, overacting,
i'm here,
underreporting on a highly-editorialized true story about F*ing cake or something.
like i said,
it's a hard style, but it's mine;
never quiet, never soft.....