Pie: the New Jihad

The headlines are fraught with strife.

I listened to the speeches yesterday, broadcast live from the U.N., which outlined varying avenues for peace in the Middle East. My hopes rose with our president's rhetoric, then crashed after our own (liberal) pundits skewered his words. Hours later from the same podium, Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad fiercely criticized U.S. and U.K. policies. He vowed that his country would continue to develop their nuclear program, despite international outcry. Along with the rest of America, I wondered if President Bush and Ahmadinejad (whose name we Americans had better learn to pronounce) would bump into each other's entourage yesterday. To prevent this awkward encounter, do they send scouts up ahead?
"It's all clear, Chief. No sign of him. C'mon, c'mon, let's boogie." all the president's men say as they hold the elevator doors open. And two flights down, one floor over, Iranian security dodges three suspicious men in Western garb by dipping into a stairwell. Turns out the three were waitstaff.
This is all conjecture. No one has time to dream this stuff up unless their family is in a foreign country on a missions trip.

Really what I mean to say is this: as a housewife, Christian, and concerned citizen, I have a solution to all this international hubbub. It is something that lies in my hands, something that I have the power to contribute, and a very plausible, reasonable catalyst for change.

Pie.
That's right, pie. I have been testing this secret weapon for two decades, and it has never failed me yet. In desperate situations, ones in which people should've been loving each other and getting along (but weren't), I prayed while peeling apples. Bowls and bowls of 'em, and hand-picked, too. Total involvement is key. Stealthily, I delivered warm, syrupy pies to doorsteps.
Pastry-bombs, if you will. No note, and only in aluminum pie-tins, please. The homey smell would waft under doorways and sift through living room windows.
"Someone smell pie?" a gruff, uncompromising voice would inquire.
"Pie?" (another tense voice) "I know I didn't make any pie. Don't be ridicul-..."
And then they would find it. And eat it. And smile while scratching their bellies. A conciliatory phonecall is only a small step away from such contentment.

Only good things can happen after eating pie. And that's why I got to thinking: since all these world leaders and shapers-of-our-future are assembled in NYC only hours south of me, what's to prevent me from sending over some pie? George Bush's would be a berry pie: three kinds (blueberry, raspberry and blackberry). Very patriotic and full of interesting content. Perhaps Mr. Ahmadinejad would be bowled over by chocolate cream. Its smooth texture would soothe his temper, but the caffiene-laden chocolate would provide balance. With an ounce of discernment, I could personalize the pie to the situation and strategically change the world.

Late this afternoon, my dear fam will gather their luggage and head into NYC traffic. Of all people, they understand the power of pie. Maybe they wouldn't mind stopping by the U.N. and picking up a few orders. In the meantime, accompanied by fervent prayer, I'll pull out some tins and keep rollin' out the dough.