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Happy Pi Day!

By 49thShelf
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tagged: pie books, pie, pi
March 14 is Pi day, and so of course, we made a list...
Canadian Pie

Canadian Pie

edition:Hardcover
also available: Paperback
tagged :

A funny and fascinating tour de force from Will Ferguson, three-time winner of the Leacock Medal for Humour.

Ferguson has spent years wandering and musing across Canada and beyond. Canadian Pie includes his reflections on the lost art of crank calls, tips on how to get someone to pick blueberries out of a muffin for you, and lessons of a mini-bar ninja. There are “lost” radio scripts of a Maritime soap opera, a roundup of big objects beside the highway, and an ode to young love in Old Quebec …

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Alligator Pie Classic Edition

Alligator Pie Classic Edition

by Dennis Lee
illustrated by Frank Newfeld
edition:Hardcover
tagged : humorous

"You can almost hear the skipping rope slapping the sidewalk,” wrote Margaret Laurence of Dennis Lee’s timeless poetry collection Alligator Pie. One of the first illustrated books published about Canadian children and featuring Canadian place names, Alligator Pie established Dennis Lee’s reputation as “Canada’s Father Goose” and has sold more than half a million copies since its publication in 1974. This classic edition, featuring Frank Newfeld’s instantly recognizable original ill …

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More Pies!

More Pies!

edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover
tagged :

This favourite Munsch title gets a brand-new look

Samuel has woken up hungry and it seems that nothing can satisfy him. Luckily, there's a pie-eating contest in the park, where Samuel eats not one, not two, but six pies! To everyone's surprise, he wins the contest without getting sick. But what will happen when he discovers his mother has made him yet another pie for lunch?

 

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The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie

edition:Paperback
also available: Hardcover

Winner of the 2007 Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger

A delightfully dark English mystery, featuring precocious young sleuth Flavia de Luce and her eccentric family.

The summer of 1950 hasn’t offered up anything out of the ordinary for eleven-year-old Flavia de Luce: bicycle explorations around the village, keeping tabs on her neighbours, relentless battles with her older sisters, Ophelia and Daphne, and brewing up poisonous concoctions while plotting revenge in their home’s abandoned V …

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Excerpt

ONE

It was as black in the closet as old blood. They had shoved me in and locked the door. I breathed heavily through my nose, fighting desperately to remain calm. I tried counting to ten on every intake of breath, and to eight as I released each one slowly into the darkness. Luckily for me, they had pulled the gag so tightly into my open mouth that my nostrils were left unobstructed, and I was able to draw in one slow lungful after another of the stale, musty air.

I tried hooking my fingernails under the silk scarf that bound my hands behind me but, since I always bit them to the quick, there was nothing to catch. Jolly good luck then that I’d remembered to put my fingertips together, using them as ten firm little bases to press my palms apart as they had pulled the knots tight.

Now I rotated my wrists, squeezing them together until I felt a bit of slack, using my thumbs to work the silk down until the knots were between my palms — then between my fingers. If they had been bright enough to think of tying my thumbs together, I should never have escaped. What utter morons they were.

With my hands free at last, I made short work of the gag.

Now for the door. But first, to be sure they were not lying in wait for me, I squatted and peered out through the keyhole at the attic. Thank heavens they had taken the key away with them. There was no one in sight: save for its perpetual tangle of shadows, junk and sad bric-a-brac, the long attic was empty. The coast was clear.

Reaching above my head at the back of the closet, I unscrewed one of the wire coat-hooks from its mounting board. By sticking its curved wing into the keyhole and levering the other end, I was able to form an L-shaped hook, which I poked into the depths of the ancient lock. A bit of judicious fishing and fiddling yielded a gratifying click. It was almost too easy. The door swung open and I was free.

I skipped down the broad stone staircase into the hall, pausing at the door of the dining room just long enough to toss my pigtails back over my shoulders and into their regulation position.

Father still insisted on dinner being served as the clock struck the hour and eaten at the massive oak refectory table, just as it had been when mother was alive.

‘Ophelia and Daphne not down yet, Flavia?’ he asked peevishly, looking up from the latest issue of The British Philatelist, which lay open beside his meat and potatoes.

‘I haven’t seen them in ages,’ I said.

It was true. I hadn’t seen them — not since they had gagged and blindfolded me, then lugged me hogtied up the attic stairs and locked me in the closet.

Father glared at me over his spectacles for the statutory four seconds before he went back to mumbling over his sticky treasures.

I shot him a broad smile: a smile wide enough to present him with a good view of the wire braces that caged my teeth. Although they gave me the look of a dirigible with the skin off, Father always liked being reminded that he was getting his money’s worth. But this time he was too preoccupied to notice.

I hoisted the lid off the Spode vegetable dish and, from the depths of its hand-painted butterflies and raspberries, spooned out a generous helping of peas. Using my knife as a ruler and my fork as a prod, I marshalled the peas so that they formed meticulous rows and columns across my plate: rank upon rank of little green spheres, spaced with a precision that would have delighted the heart of the most exacting Swiss watchmaker. Then, beginning at the bottom left, I speared the first pea with my fork and ate it.

It was all Ophelia’s fault. She was, after all, seventeen, and therefore expected to possess at least a modicum of the maturity she should come into as an adult. That she should gang up with Daphne, who was thirteen, simply wasn’t fair. Their combined ages totalled thirty years. Thirty years! — against my eleven. It was not only unsporting, it was downright rotten. And it simply screamed out for revenge.

Next morning I was busy among the flasks and flagons of my chemical laboratory on the top floor of the east wing when Ophelia barged in without so much as a la-di-dah.

‘Where’s my pearl necklace?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m not the keeper of your trinkets.’

‘I know you took it. The Mint Imperials that were in my lingerie drawer are gone too, and I’ve observed that missing mints in this household seem always to wind up in the same grubby little mouth.’

I adjusted the flame on a spirit lamp that was heating a beaker of red liquid. ‘If you’re insinuating that my personal hygiene is not up to the same high standard as yours you can go suck my galoshes.’

‘Flavia!’

‘Well, you can. I’m sick and tired of being blamed for everything, Feely.’

But my righteous indignation was cut short as Ophelia peered short-sightedly into the ruby flask, which was just coming to the boil.

‘What’s that sticky mass in the bottom?’ Her long, manicured fingernail tapped at the glass.

‘It’s an experiment. Careful, Feely, it’s acid!’

Ophelia’s face went white. ‘Those are my pearls! They belonged to Mummy!’

Ophelia was the only one of Harriet’s daughters who referred to her as ‘Mummy’; the only one of us old enough to have any real memories of the flesh-and-blood woman who had carried us in her body, a fact that Ophelia never tired of reminding us. Harriet had been killed in a mountaineering accident when I was just a year old, and she was not often spoken of at Buckshaw.

Was I jealous of Ophelia’s memories? Did I resent them? I don’t believe I did; it ran far deeper than that. In rather an odd way, I despised Ophelia’s memories of our mother.

I looked up slowly from my work so that the round lenses of my spectacles would flash blank white semaphores of light at her. I knew that whenever I did this, Ophelia had the horrid impression that she was in the presence of some mad black-and-white German scientist in a film at the Gaumont.

‘Beast!’

‘Hag!’ I retorted. But not until Ophelia had spun round on her heel — quite neatly, I thought — and stormed out the door.

Retribution was not long in coming, but then with Ophelia, it never was. Ophelia was not, as I was, a long-range planner who believed in letting the soup of revenge simmer to perfection.

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The Bye-Bye Pie

The Bye-Bye Pie

edition:Paperback

When Grandma announces that she is going to Greenland for a year, her family plans a surprise party. Joey confidently helps out cooking, cleaning and making gifts. "You're too little help," he tells his brother Alfie. But it is Alfie who comes to Joey's rescue when the dessert meets with an unfortunate accident. And Joey learns that sometimes a family's secret recipe contains the ingredients for togetherness, not just pie.

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Life of Pi (Movie Tie-in Edition)

Life of Pi (Movie Tie-in Edition)

edition:Paperback
tagged : literary, animals

Life of Pi is at once the story of a young castaway who faces immeasurable hardships on the high seas, and a meditation on religion, faith, art and life that is as witty as it is profound. Using the threads of all of our best stories, Yann Martel has woven a glorious spiritual adventure that makes us question what it means to be alive, and to believe.

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Pies

Pies

edition:Paperback
tagged : pies, desserts

Comforting aromas of traditional pies, fruit pies, cakes, cookies and pancakes….This book offers 60 recipes of tantalizing desserts, each more enticing than the last. Enjoy the classics and prepare to succumb to the inspired creations of authors Josée Fiset and Dominique Boué. Better yet, let your imagination run free and easily concoct your own pies and other delicacies. To be enjoyed without moderation, to the delight of your taste buds and your loved ones!

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