I had a neighbor in a small town in Wisconsin who would try out new recipes on me. Usually desserts, often the result of his recent travels: Bananas Foster from New Orleans, Lane Cake from Alabama, or Hermits from New England. Jonah was one of these guys who loves to cook but hates to eat alone.

I asked Jonah about his business, which was educational software, and which is the thing that took him around to all these places—he had to pitch schools around the country on adopting his software every couple of weeks or so—but he seemed completely uninterested in talking about it. Business hours are over, he'd say. What do you think about the sopaipillas?

Have you ever thought of being a baker? I asked him.

There's no money in it, Jonah shrugged.

But baking makes you happy.

Happy doesn't pay the bills.

Well, I'm glad you like to cook, and I'm glad you like to share, I said, but I'm going to gain about 50 pounds and it's all your fault.

Jonah smiled a lizard smile. He was bald on top and wore sweaters out-of-season.

Is this, like, a romantic thing? my girlfriend Linda asked, when I explained to her that I was headed to a friend's house for dinner. She and I had met online, and it was still new enough that we wore our insecurities like jokes.

It's more like a misery-loves-company kind of thing, I said. And for me that's what it was. For Jonah it was more like an only-thing-in-my-life-I-do-that-I-actually-enjoy kind of thing. I don't think he even knew he was unhappy.

Okay, use a condom, she said.

That night Jonah had promised something different. Pot pie, he had told me, and so I'd intentionally skipped dinner since we were having a real entrée this time. But when he let me into his house, and I crossed the threshold, I was struck with the distinct smell of sour cherries, cardamom, and something else, something familiar but just outside the boundary of memory.

As I ate, he put me through his usual list of questions. He wanted the right language to accompany the flavors, to make the meal more real. I happened to be an English teacher, and he urged me to employ a few choice adjectives.

I try not to rely too much on adjectives, I said.

Jonah frowned. Well, tell me what you taste, anyway.

I was grateful for the cardamom cherry pie, but I was so hungry I just wanted to sit there and eat in silence. I wound up having three helpings, and this was one big cherry pie.

I knew it was cherry cardamom pie as soon as I walked in the door, I said, but there's something else as well, in the crust.

Of course, Jonah said. I told you. It's Colorado Pot Pie.

This is not pot pie, I said.

Yes it is, said Jonah, laughing, and you've had a ton of it, my friend.

I hadn't gotten high since college, and this was particularly strong pot, and I'd had, as Jonah pointed out, a ton of it. It felt like the camera of my eye zoomed out, and I was suddenly looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Did you spike the pie? I asked him.

I told you it was Colorado Pot Pie, he said. What are you feeling? Describe it to me.

Nothing, I said. My tongue is numb. Tingly.

The unfinished pie looked surprisingly appetizing.

Hey, I said. I have a great idea. What if we shared this pie with Linda?

Is that a great idea? asked Jonah.

I'm just saying, I said. Isn't it a waste? Getting high without Linda?

Life is never wasted, he said.

Except for right now, I said, life is definitely wasted.

In the distance, a barred owl hooted its call, "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you-all?"

How high are you? I asked.

Jonah looked at me from under his eyebrows. Hi, how are you? he said.

I felt sticky, like my body was attached to the chair, and my forearms were attached to the table, and my hands attached to the fork and knife in my hand. Then I realized I actually was sticky, from the pie filling. I have to go wash my hands, I said.

In the bathroom, I looked in the mirror at my fluorescent-lit face. I could see every blackhead and mole, even the slight deterioration underneath the skin. Is this the mirror Jonah uses to look at himself every morning? I thought. Is this how he sees himself every day? I rushed out into the living room, where Jonah had settled onto the couch. You need to become a baker, I told him.

The last thing I need, he said, is to make life choices while high on pie.

It is the last thing you'll need, I said.

He waved his hand dismissively.

Listen, I said, the world needs delight. Sweet, sugary, fresh-from-the-oven.

Should I just move to Colorado, he said, make pot pies for a living?

I tried to separate the elation and eagerness I was experiencing from the effects of the edible. I tried to imagine if the pie would be as perfect without the secret ingredient, a food that actually stimulates the appetite.

I don't know, man, I said. All I know is that baking is what you love, and people ought to spend their lives doing what they love.

Did you always want to teach English? he asked.

No, I answered. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a preacher.

I can tell, Jonah said.

Just go out there and prove that it's possible to follow your dreams, I said.

Preach it! he said.

Become the man you were always destined to be, I said.

Preach!

Just do it! I said.

Fine! Jonah said, standing up. I will! Then, shaky on his legs, he decided to sit back down.

Phong Nguyen's most recent book is his debut novel, THE ADVENTURES OF JOE HARPER. He holds the Miller Family Endowed Chair in Literature and Writing at the University of Missouri.

Detail of photo on main page courtesy of Sam Cox.

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