I only ever learned pi out to two decimal places. Couldn’t tell you what comes after the four if you paid me to, although it must be a number less than five, otherwise they’d round it to 3.15 instead of 3.14.
I’m a little more knowledgeable about pie.
I learned pie-making from my mother. She makes crust from scratch and tells the best story about the time she made apple pie for her father and it, um, didn’t quite go as planned. Under her tutelage, I took home a couple of Champion Fruit Pie ribbons at the County Youth Fair, and now, in my own home, I make Chicken Pot Pie and Pumpkin Pie and Apple Pie and Tamale Pie and if I can ever get the Husband to try a different kind of cooked fruit, we might have blueberry or cherry pie once summer rolls around.
There’s something both deliciously homey and strangely magical about pie-making. The smell of nutmeg and ginger. The sound of a wooden rolling pin on the counter. The feel of flour and dough between your fingers. The moment of triumph when you finally get the top crust on and the whole thing safely into the oven. The moment of kicking yourself when you realize you forgot the butter and have to take the pie out of the oven to try and cram bits of butter through the slits in the top crust.
Eating pie, though. That’s the best part. You can’t eat pi. Although I suppose you could eat 3.14 pieces of pie.
That, I think, would be a fitting way to celebrate the 14th day of March.