Magda Croob had often been told she was a fantastic cook; mostly by her late husband, Glen “Stomach Cramps” Croob.
Magda’s homemade pie crust was famous in three counties. One would think it was because of its flakiness, its scent, or its flavour. Perhaps its colour, or mouth-feel?
No.
Magda’s pie crust was the hardest substance known to man. It could not be punctured with teeth. Its molecular structure mostly closely resembled space shuttle heat tiles. It was said the spirits of all the blueberries, rhubarb, cherries, apples, peaches or mince-meat entombed within her pies still haunted her kitchen, so great was their anger at being baked alive inside a pie-shaped tomb from which they could never be enjoyed.
You’d think this would have hurt sales of Magda’s Pies™.
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Magda’s pies were highly useful as door stops, as discs for athletes to throw, as anvils, and – between you, me and the fencepost that was driven into the ground by one of Magda’s pies – as weights to keep bodies at the bottom of the lake.
But this isn’t about Magda’s pie. It’s about her husband, who loved her dearly, but, unable to eat her cooking (all her cooking was fucking awful, too) he turned to cannibalism.
Google “missing salesmen (1958-72) and you’ll see.
