For the love of a salted caramel honey pie

Rizzo is wondering if he’ll get a taste of this honey pie. Photo: Gerald Farinas.

There are few things in this world that understand me the way custard pies do.

I grew up in Honolulu, and while most children clamored for birthday cakes stacked with frosting and decorated with cartoon characters, I wanted none of it.

My birthday wish every year was simple: custard pie.

Smooth.

Eggy.

Silky.

Humble.

A slice of pure comfort that didn’t need sprinkles or candles to make it special.

It was enough just as it was.

My love for custard never faded. In fact, it evolved. I remain loyal to every kind of custard-based treat—Portuguese egg tarts, flan, coconut cream, banana cream, lemon meringue—anything with that gentle wobble and creamy soul.

Except for pumpkin pie.

That, I will never understand. Dense, grainy, spiced within an inch of its life, pumpkin pie is the one custard cousin I leave off the invite list. It’s like someone decided to take everything I love about custard and mute it under a blanket of cinnamon and mashed squash.

So imagine my joy—no, my reverence—when I first tasted Uvon Tucker’s salted caramel honey pie a couple years ago. It was as if someone had read my custard-loving heart and decided to write a poem in pie form.

This was not a pie for the faint of palate.

The custard was luscious and deep, kissed by the golden glow of honey and heightened with the complexity of caramel, all brightened by flakes of sea salt that made the sweetness sing.

It wasn’t trying to impress with cloying sugar or flashy toppings—it was confident, elegant, and luxurious without being pretentious.

This pie doesn’t just sit on a plate.

It ministers.

It melts slowly across your tongue like and invites you to pause, to breathe, to appreciate.

It’s dessert liturgy.

The crust, buttery and firm, gives just enough resistance before yielding to the richness inside.

The filling coats the mouth like a prayer—familiar, intimate, sacred.

You taste it and think: This is what dessert was meant to be.

Salted caramel honey pie isn’t showy, but it is unforgettable.

It taps into the nostalgia of my island upbringing, the comfort of custard, and the thrill of discovering something both new and deeply rooted in personal memory.

Every bite is a reminder that indulgence doesn’t need to shout.

Sometimes, it simply hums.

And I’ll take that hum over any frosted cake or pumpkin masquerade every single time.

Thanks for the pie, Uvon!