Every year for Thanksgiving we have what is technically called a shitload of pies. We eat our fill, and have pies left over for the next day. From our friend Finn, I learned the definition of a Yankee. To a Southerner, it’s someone who lives above the Mason-Dixon line. To people above the Mason-Dixon, it’s someone who lives in New England. To a New Englander, it’s someone who lives in Vermont. To a Vermonter, it’s someone who has pie for breakfast.
Pies, pies, pies
Pies, pies, pies
Pies, pies, pies
Every year for Thanksgiving we have what is technically called a shitload of pies. We eat our fill, and have pies left over for the next day. From our friend Finn, I learned the definition of a Yankee. To a Southerner, it’s someone who lives above the Mason-Dixon line. To people above the Mason-Dixon, it’s someone who lives in New England. To a New Englander, it’s someone who lives in Vermont. To a Vermonter, it’s someone who has pie for breakfast.