Sweet Potato Pie in Oregon: Hunter's Wild Ride with Mitchell
The Oregon afternoon hung suspended like a watercolor painting, soft light filtering through the dusty blinds of Hunter’s college apartment. Outside, the distant silhouette of pine trees swayed against the muted gray sky - a quintessential Pacific Northwest backdrop to an anything-but-ordinary babysitting adventure.
Hunter Thompson - twenty years old, junior at Oregon State, perpetual wearer of well-worn flannels and even more well-loved sneakers - never imagined his life would involve babysitting a grown man with the mind of a toddler. Yet here he was, responsible for Mitchell.
Mitchell wasn’t your typical charge. Standing at six feet tall, with the muscular build of an adult and the unbridled enthusiasm of a two-year-old, he was a walking contradiction. Currently, he wore nothing but a stretched-out college basketball camp t-shirt and a pampers that looked like it was engineering its own structural compromise with each enthusiastic bounce.
The kitchen was Hunter’s battlefield today. A perfectly crafted sweet potato pie sat cooling on the counter, its golden-brown surface promising a culinary adventure that Mitchell was about to transform into absolute chaos.
“MITCHELL!” Hunter called, his voice a mix of amusement and preemptive resignation. “Dinner time, buddy!”
Mitchell’s response was instantaneous. A full-body wiggle that defied physics, a laugh that could shatter glass, and a trajectory aimed directly at the pie that suggested zero regard for personal space or table manners.
“PIE!” Mitchell proclaimed, his deep adult voice creating a comical contrast with his toddler-like excitement.
The first contact was explosive. Literally. Mitchell’s massive hands dove into the pie like it was a swimming pool of deliciousness. Sweet potato filling erupted everywhere - across the table, splattered on the floor, decorating Mitchell’s shirt like some kind of abstract culinary artwork.
Hunter watched, part horrified, part amused, entirely resigned to the inevitable cleanup.
“Dude,” he chuckled, grabbing a handful of paper towels, “you’re supposed to eat the pie, not declare war on it.”
Mitchell’s response was another thunderous laugh. He continued his pie demolition, now doing what could only be described as a full-body dance. His diaper swished with each movement, creating a rhythmic accompaniment to the destruction.
Bits of crust flew. Filling splattered. Mitchell giggled with the pure, unfiltered joy of a toddler who had discovered the ultimate playground.
This wasn’t just babysitting. This was an adventure. This was Mitchell.
Hunter shook his head, a smile spreading across his face. Just another day in the life of a college student unexpectedly thrust into the world of Mitchell-sitting.
Takeaway: Sometimes love looks like cleaning sweet potato pie off every conceivable surface. Sometimes, chaos is just another word for joy.