There is no pie at the Salton Sea. None, not even a crust, unless you count the one ringing a body of water that’s saltier than the Pacific Ocean. Here is where Lt. Col. Paul Tibbets and his crew did dummy runs before they dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Originally created in the early 1900s when the Colorado River flooded, the Salton Sea once covered more than 400 square miles, has suffered massive fish and fowl deaths, and, well, has been hailed as either an environmental treasure or a disease-ridden eyesore.

Yeah. There is no apple pie at the Salton Sea. But I'll wager there are plenty of hot dogs.
It’s an ugly place with a bad smell, and Rafael was quite happy to pass through. He had 9 versions of Tainted Love to listen to, after all, and was determined to do it after I had refused to let him play his Total Johnny Cash collection. He was also secretly afraid that he’d end up enslaved, hidden for 20 years inside one of the many tin trailer homes that dot the shore. Silly guy: we were driving a Chevy, not a Toyota, and people here respected Chevys. Sure enough, only minutes after we stopped and climbed out, an old purple Buick Regal drove up and down slowly, its driver looking at the Tahoe, checking out those optional 20-inch wheels and presumably, us. A little kid, without shirt or teeth, rode up a few minutes later and stopped, 10 feet away, admiring the car and, clearly, wondering if we had any pie.

If worse came to worst, we could barter our Mom takeaways.
I secretly thought to myself, if it came to it – who would really miss Rafael, anyway? I would really miss my slice of Mom’s pie.