I believe pie is the cause of my tendonitis. Since Hoosier Mama opened shop in my neighborhood, I’ve come to love the pot pies. All of them. They are legit pies, chunky with tops and bottoms, not some milky stew with pearl onions and a puff pastry floating on top. And I love the morosely named and juicy-raisiny Funeral Pie. And the creamy Ginger Custard slices. And the better-than-pumpkin Persimmon Pie. And… Well, it has driven me to the gym, forcing me to swim mile after mile to burn off those buttery crusts. Though one could eat Hoosier pies for every meal without complaint (stick with the weirder ones, but skip the cloying chess pies), there are thankfully other options in the warehouse-y outpost, which has more of a San Francisco industrial vibe than retro kitsch look. The breakfast biscuits filled with bacon and butterkäse are heavy (in a good way); at lunch, lighter sandwiches with turkey, apples, beef and greens are served. While you sip on a Mexican mocha from the Dollop counter, nosh on a hand pie. Yeah, it’s still pie, but it’s small.