Communication and Service [RANT]

Today is a holiday: the first one celebrated in my head this month. Needless to say, I have been thinking of patriotic pie and burgers and small children racing through my yard chasing each other to something exciting. What exactly that is remains to be determined, but we have pie: cherry, dutch apple, and blueberry, oh my!

Of course, the world outside my food-obsessed brain marches onward and multiple people have enlisted my skills this week. The first was a situation of my own making. When my kitchen was out of commission, I attended a White Elephant Gift Brunch with some friends from church. Since I couldn’t just bring brownies, I presented a gift certificate for baked goods. The recipient still hasn’t quite redeemed her gift.

Another couple of friends is leaving us for the west and the same hostess offered up her house for a farewell party. Seeing my friend in the same environment reminded me that I have not yet fulfilled my obligation from December, so I sat down to see what type of baked delight might appeal to her. She responded by asking if I could make lasagna. I can and I have, but it has been a while, since I learned to make it in a giant turkey roaster and the only person in my house who will eat is me. 

Technically lasagna is baked, and, as we talked, my brain reminded me that not everyone is addicted to sugar, so I spent half of yesterday chopping and browning and baking lasagnas, since I figured she wanted a smaller portion of lasagna than a roaster pan. I also decided to use the no cook noodles, which apparently get uncooperative if the top layer isn’t held down by a massive amount of sauce, so now I know that for the future. I hope she appreciates her gift because mine was delicious, but I didn’t put as many noodles in mine, so it wasn’t mysteriously crunchy.

Another young lady at church wanted my help getting started on her family history. The missionaries informed me of this and said they would set something up. Then they asked again and gave me the sinking feeling that perhaps these young men might need to work on their organizational skills, so I started communicating with the young woman, which I should have done in the first place. 

We decided to meet up Monday at six at her apartment. I made her aware that I might be late. She seemed to understand that. I did end up leaving my house around six instead of before six. I saw that coming and gave her a heads up around 5:40. Having not heard anything to the contrary, I drove toward her apartment.

Halfway there, I got a message telling me we needed to reschedule. Another message followed explaining that her landlord didn’t like her to have guests after 6:20. I proceeded to turn around and head home as it was already 6:18. 

So clearly, I need to gather more information before I agree to anything. Communication is important, people.

That is why I must sadly confess to my guests today that I forgot to add sugar to two of the pies I made. Clearly, this was not a good week for me to bake. Nothing turned out quite right. But I tested the pies and the addition of ice cream definitely sweetened them up. What does this tell us about ice cream?

That it’s delicious. Calm down. I scream for ice cream.

Piece of the Pie [FICTION]

Grandma Ellie’s Thanksgiving feasts were legendary. Most ended with the whole family passed out due to tryptophan and excessively happy taste buds. A couple ended with cousins not talking to each other for daring to back the team that defeated theirs, but they usually got over it before the next game of the season aired. One memorable year gets its story retold every year as we gather together to commiserate as we long for Grandma Ellie and her many talents.

As a newly minted teenager, my thirteenth birthday fell three days before Thanksgiving that year. That might be why I determined to be as difficult as possible that Thursday. My mother’s continued encouragement to get ready to go to grandma’s house fell on stubbornly deaf ears. When my dad finally intervened, he ended up lifting me from the comfortable nest of blankets on my bed and throwing me over his shoulder.

“You’re not too old to spank, you know?” He asked as he gave me a firm spank on the bottom to make his point.

“Yes, daddy,” I agreed but the petulance crept out and earned me an extra spank for good measure.

Those were the last words out of my mouth until I stepped past Grandma Ellie’s front door with its peeling white paint and faded fall wreath. Then the warm scents of love laced with roasting turkey, savory herbs, and, most importantly, every little nuance of pumpkin spice. Those memories make me understand how that scent took over many a millennial heart every fall years later. It certainly softened my pre-millennial heart. Had that not melted a little of my teenage angst, being wrapped in my grandmother’s arms would have turned me into the butter necessary to begin a good roux.

She settled me in at the counter-height table with a healthy slice of pie and everything else faded away for the next three hours. I didn’t shy away from my mom smooching me on the cheek though she abused the privilege and kept coming back for more. I even let my younger cousins braid my hair. I regretted it later when I had to brush out burgeoning dreadlocks. 

The highest praise of my grandmother’s magic touch lay in my polite and almost witty conversation at dinner. My mother beamed proudly at me over platters heaped with every dish anyone ever longed to see on the Thanksgiving table. We ate our fill. Then we nibbled some more. Then we watched some old family footage until we had just enough room for the coup de grace.

My grandmother’s pies were pure perfection. From the flakey, buttery crust to the smooth filling just sweet enough to make the spices pop, to the homemade whipped cream that contained the secret to happiness, no one could pass up a piece. Even Aunt Mel happily devoured at least one piece knowing full well the cinnamon would turn her into a rashy, red, itchy beast.

But no one loved Grandma Ellie’s pie like her two boys. If Uncle Fred ate three pieces, so did Uncle Ted. If Uncle Ted asked for another dollop of whipped cream, Uncle Fred insisted he needed two.

Disaster would have been averted if Uncle Ted and Aunt Mel’s daughter Viv hadn’t been the only child old enough to bring a sweetheart home for the holidays. Or if I hadn’t already enjoyed a slice upon arrival. But however it came to pass, the last pie produced an uneven number of slices. And neither of my uncles was going to be the bigger man—not in that way.

“I’m the oldest. It’s mine,” Ted declared with certainty.

Fred grinned wolfishly and his eyes focused on Viv’s boyfriend, who was still nibbling away at his piece. “I’d say you already had yours, big brother.”

He reached for the pie then, but Ted knocked his hand away. “Mine!” He roared.

At this moment my tiny grandmother stepped between her two tall sons and snatched up the plate. “I shall just cut this piece in half,” she paused to give each of them a disapproving look, “and you can share it like civilized human beings.”

“Yes, mother,” they both demurred with downcast eyes, but even while they both counted floor tiles, the challenge in both sets of eyes remained obvious.

They spent the rest of that holiday and every one that followed looking for moments to challenge each other where their mother couldn’t intervene. One year, they arm wrestled while grandma put finishing touches on the turkey. Fred won a broken nose. The following year, they stumbled outside to play basketball while the rest of us drowsed. Again, neither of them won since they both ended up with sprained wrists. The injuries became as much a family tradition as our shared pie addiction.

Grandma chided them each time they hurt themselves or each other. But the hijinks didn’t stop. Over time, they even got bolder and initiated staring contests and other foolishness in front of Grandma Ellie. She began carrying a spatula around for the express purpose of whacking the foolishness out of her sons. Even she knew it was a hopeless cause but I think she enjoyed the sounds they made when she snuck up on them for a little discipline.

When Grandma Ellie passed away some years later, everyone accepted her distribution of her few earthly assets with more magnanimous decorum than the verdict over that last piece of pie. Of course, had they realized she bequeathed her recipe for that pie to me over years of learning at the rolling pin of the master, that life event might have echoed the story I just relayed. I think my mother has guessed my secret, but everyone else still maintains that no one bakes a pie like Grandma Ellie. (Oh, and I invite Ted and Fred on alternating years. I could never get by with whapping either of them with a spatula.)

~~~

Hope you are preparing for a fabulous turkey day, surrounded by loved ones and enough whipped cream for the perfect pumpkin pie. And if you could send some positive energy for me to catch up on my National Novel Writing Month word count, that would be awesome.

Small Town, Strange Problem [FICTION]

When the weather turns hot and humid, my picturesque small town smells like it has a monopoly on baking cow pies. For those who might assume this is some backwoods specialty involving a pie crust and ground beef, that dish goes by the name cheeseburger pie or even shepherd’s pie. (Both delicious. Give them a try.) Cows make cow pies themselves after ruminating on their cud until every bit of nutrition has been absorbed. They are very resourceful that way. I could say much more about cows, but most people are lucky to make it this far without their eyelids slamming down like shutters against a storm of boredom. 

This morning, the smell of cow pies hung over the town. By the time I strolled down Main Street to the grocery store, I no longer noticed how my nose burned. I did buy a pie to heft home with my other purchases though, so maybe a part of me still acknowledged the prevailing message carried on the wind.

By the time I stepped back out into natural light, the desire to finish my brisk walk and then sink into my comfy chair for a good read while sampling my pie dominated every thought. With such complicated ideas already filling my head, one would hope nothing could distract me from my goal. On any other day, that would be true. Today proved different.

Honk! Honk!

“Moo!”

My jaw dropped to the ground and my groceries almost followed. Bicycles clustered along the normally calm roadways. That alone would cause confusion. But each bike bore a bovine rider. That’s cows, people! No bulls, just cows. One even squirted milk wildly as she struggled to keep pedaling with her little hooves. I swear her moo sounded more like a laugh as milk squirted in my eye causing me to almost drop my bags. Again. 

As the automatic door whirred to life behind me, I turned to see my former principal exiting the grocery store. He greeted me with a friendly wave before heading toward the high school like bizarre events weren’t on display all around him. In fact, he offered friendly waves to the unusual bicyclists he passed.

That moved my attention from the cows to my fellow humans. Foot traffic doesn’t plague our streets but generally a few people are out and about, exercising or gossiping or running quick errands. I looked for them and scanned their faces. None of them seemed to notice the bovine bikers. The few who recognized that bicycles passed by them acted as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Finally, I moved from my spot just outside the doors. I approached the nearest human and smiled in as friendly manner as I could muster with my growing anxiety. 

“Do you notice anything odd?”

She stared at me blankly for a moment and then opened her mouth to release a slow and discerning, “moo.”

This time my bags did fall from my grasp. Groceries spilled out on the ground around me. I joined them, fainting in a heap. My last thought expressed gratitude that my head landed on a comforting pillow of freshly baked pie.

—

When I came to, the doctor was rubbing my hand. “There you are. Thank goodness.”

Relieved to be addressed in English instead of moo, I grinned back her.

“You feeling okay? You bumped your head. Thank goodness for the pie. I think it saved you from a concussion but your hair might need a few washes before the blueberry comes out.” She continued to examine me as she talked, shining a light in my eyes and checking my pulse.

“So what exactly happened?” I asked tentatively.

“What do think happened?” She countered with an amused grin.

I looked down at my hands and shrugged my shoulders. She laughed softly and patted my hand.

“With the heat, the methane levels reached near toxic levels. If anything unusual happened, it was your mind coping with a lack of oxygen. You stay here and relax. We aren’t releasing any of our patients until the fire department helps get the methane levels down.”

“Oh?”

The doctor heard the implied question. “They have masks to help them breath so they are helping the farmers scoop poop.”

I nodded understanding and rested my head on my pillow. Soon I slept and dreamt of moo.

~~~

The thought of cow pies always makes me giggle. My chemistry class in high school performed a lab experiment that should have resulted in fudge. A classmate who comes from a long line of farmers and is now a vet declared that most of us actually made cow pies. Kind of makes you wonder what kind of grass was going through that chemistry class, am I right?

Also, I am not a doctor. Please don’t diagnose yourself based on my stories. That is so many steps lower than diagnosing yourself via webmd.

Holes In the Holidays [FICTION]

My shovel bites into the frozen, stony soil again. I lift the handle and toss a scoop of dirt over my shoulder onto the immense pile building along the edge of the hole. I pause to wipe sweat from my brow and survey my work. I sigh as I realize that in my excitement to dig deep and fast, I created a crater so deep I will have to climb out and might need a step stool, which is located somewhere outside of the hole. That realization prompts another. Why on earth I am I digging a ginormous hole in the ground anyway? It is Christmas Eve, I should be drinking hot cocoa and binging cheesy holiday movies.

I scratch my head, shuddering when I realize I no longer remember what prompted me to begin making this avenue to China. I lift the shovel up over the edge of the hole and take a deep breath. Luckily, my first attempt to lift myself out of the hole results in my clambering awkwardly back to high ground. The muscles of my upper arms ache from even that much extra effort. I roll over on my back, staring up at the sky as I heave deep breaths into my lungs. As I finally feel fortified enough to move, snowflakes dance down on me from the sky.

Distracted, I linger a bit before pushing myself up into the snow globe world. On my feet again, I look down into the depths of my new backyard hazard. I could easily bury my most annoying neighbor in there and not need to worry about them being unearthed by their own dog. But I know that wasn’t what the hole was for. As I ponder how I ended up here, the delicious smell of cinnamon mingling with sugar and butter wafts over me. I turn to face a plump woman with grey at her temples and dark chocolate eyes. She wears a somber brown dress underneath a flowing apron with “Me, Oh My, Pie” embroidered on it. A wave of steam wafts off the pie pictured beneath the words. She has a sturdy square bag in one hand also seems to be wearing a backpack.

“Done yet, darling?” She smiles sweetly at me. 

“Done with…?” 

“The hole for…” She looks down at my feet. “Oh yes. That should be more than big enough even for that fat man.”

My eyes widen in horror. How did I get roped into covering up a murder? She smiles and pats my arm.

“Here, honey. Have a piece of pie.” She produces a generous slice of pumpkin pie avalanched under an avalanche of whipped cream from her bag.

I know I should be suspicious of strange women bearing pie, but somehow I find myself reaching for the plate and fork. Then bite after glorious bite of perfectly spiced pumpkin confection slides over my grateful tastebuds. As the last forkful disappears, a sweet, familiar jingling turns my eyes skyward. I swallow that last bite just in time because my jaw drops to my sternum.

The shadow of a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer cuts across the moon. A large figure waves from high atop a giant bag of presents as if he knows I am down here. I wave back.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 tiny reindeer,” the pie lady counts, “And one big fat toy man, who can’t wait his turn.”

“Huh?” I forget to wave and my arm falls at my side.

As I drop my hand, the pie woman grabs it in her own, which is warm and soft. “Come along, dear, I need your help.”

“Uh-huh.” I reply, sluggish from pie.

I follow in her wake as she seems to borrow speed from cheetahs. If I weren’t so pied up, I probably would have noticed that I must also be running at superhuman speeds. When we finally stop, a two-story house looms above us with lights around every window and dangling from the eaves. 

“Wow. That’s so realistic.” I mumble as my eyes light on Santa and his reindeer upon the roof.

The pie lady snorts. “Should be. We finally caught up to the big man.”

I grunt in confusion and concern as she wraps her arms around me and fumbles with what appears to be a giant can of whipped cream on her back. We shoot up into the air, leaving a trail of creamy deliciousness in our wake. I just manage to land on the edge of the roof where my not so sweet friend pushes me forward toward the sled team of reindeer. They eye me calmly except for Rudolph whose nose seems to glow with alarm as we step closer.

“Don’t worry boys and girls. I brought you some carrot cake.”

I watch in wonder as more concoctions come out of her bag, “Are you related to Mary Poppins?”

She snorts as she offers tiny bites of carrot cake to each reindeer. “She’s got nothing on me. I don’t limit myself to a teaspoon of anything.”

As Rudolph tentatively accepts her offering, footsteps approach from the chimney. “Ho ho ho. Good evening ladies. Shouldn’t you be asleep, awaiting my arrival?”

My tongue ties itself in knots as I turn to face the very real, extremely jolly Santa Claus. The pie lady doesn’t seem as affected as me.

She leans in to whisper in my ear and I find myself repeating her words as tears flow down my cheeks, “Oh, Santa, you have to help me or Christmas will be ruined.”

His blue eyes lose a little of their twinkle as he leans toward me, placing a concerned hand on my shoulder, “What has happened, Bella, and how can I help?”

“Follow me back to my place. You have to see it to believe it.”

“Follow you,” he chuckles softly. “We’ll fly there. Won’t we, team?”

The reindeer toss their heads and stamp their feet in agreement. He lifts me gently into the sleigh and then lifts the pie lady, who smiles innocently at him. The desire to let him know this is all a ruse rises up in me, but one look from her has me lowering my eyes and feigning concern about impending doom to my holidays. I guess the feeling isn’t so false when it seems she wants to end Christmas for the whole world.

As Santa guides the sleigh toward my roof, a stomp on my foot prompts me to say, “Can you land at the side of the house, near that hole, Santa?”

“Of course, ho ho ho,” he looks at me out for the corner of his eye and I swear he sees right through me, but he lands right next to the hole anyway.

“You’ve been very busy, Bella, now tell me how I can help you,” he says as he helps me down from sleigh, but his eyes never leave my companion. 

As soon as he helps her down, she launches herself at him, “You took my holiday, I’ll take yours.”

 

He stands firm, laughing merrily as she bounces off his jelly belly without moving him an inch. “Now. Now. Surely, we can discuss this like civilized adults.”

“How civilized is it that I get to hear your greatness sung before my delicious pies even grace a holiday table? How civilized it is it that you get gratitude and no one even acknowledges me and my contribution to the wonderful aromas of Thanksgiving?”

“None of that is my choice.” He tells her. “And I love your pies. Can’t get in the mood for Christmas without a couple of slices of pie with my turkey leg.”

She eyes him suspiciously, pressing her lips together as she searches for her next argument.

“Ho ho ho,” Santa’s eyes twinkle. “Dear Pie Lady, you must come back with me to the North Pole and meet Mrs. Claus. She would love to bake some pies with you. Pie is as beloved for Christmas as for Thanksgiving—well, for all the good little boys and girls.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We believe in second chances. You don’t have to be on the naughty list every year, unless you really need the coal.”

“Oh, Santa,” her little pie heart melts into a puddle of undercooked lemon pudding as she throws her arms around him and cries for joy.

I look down at my feet, pondering what to do with this year’s lump of coal. 

“Of course, Pie Lady, you will have to do one things for me,” he looks at her sternly.

She cowers a little and timidly asks, “What’s that?”

“Apologize to Bella here for using your delectable pie’s power to rope her into this.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, Bella. I should’t have used your love of pie against you. Can you forgive me?”

“I guess so,” I say.

“Oh good.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out an entire pie.

My mouth waters as the smell of apple and cinnamon pours into the air. “Yum. Thank you.”

“I have something for you, too, Bella.” Santa says.

“Oh?” I hold out my free hand to accept my lump of coal. 

Santa’s deep belly laugh causes me to grin, but he doesn’t place anything in my hand. “I see you have the start of a lovely pool, so my elves will finish that up for you and you should be able to enjoy your gift by Memorial Day. Now I have other gifts to deliver. Care to help?” He offers his elbow to the pie lady.

Soon they are perched on the sleigh and headed up and away.

They call out together as they fly away. “Merry Christmas to All and to All a Good Night…And Pie.”

~~~

I can’t help but observe that this particularly story strayed so far from the original prompt that even the prompter wouldn’t recognize it as such. But oh how I love it…and pie…mesmerizing, mind-bending, tongue-tingling pie.

A Thanksgiving Poem

We’re all thankful for something. At least, we should be. I am thankful for themes. Not just the age old theme from “A Christmas Story” about what you want for Christmas, but all those themes or prompts our teachers offered us from “what I did on my summer vacation” to the “describe Thanksgiving at your house”, which once heralded this joyous poem that I thought my dear readers would enjoy.

THANKSGIVING

Sitting down at the table to eat

Turkey and ham, the other white meat

Saying grace over our Bounty

It's the best paper towel in the county

My brother has swallowed the turkey

And his eyes look kind of murky,

But he still has room for pie

Lemon, chocolate, and pumpkin, oh my.

We all stand up in joy to sing

Hoping my brother doesn't eat anything

Because odds are he'll explode 

And scatter himself across the road.

Finally, he's ready to go

Which we're all happy to know

So we give him a push out the door

Because he can't squeeze through like before.

Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood [REVIEW]

When this novel became a movie a number of years ago, my mother saw a commercial for it and told me it made her think of our family. Apparently, the promo featured a scene where a daughter slammed her phone against the counter during a conversation with her mother. Since such behavior doesn't bring forth visions of a healthy mother-daughter relationship, I chose not to comment. I also decided it would be best not to view the movie, just in case.

Years have elapsed since that conversation and a couple more years have elapsed since my mother passed away. During the ensuing time, I picked up a copy of the novel at Goodwill that finally made its way to the top of my pile. While I had only saw the disfunction in the interaction between the mother and daughter in the small clip my mother brought to my attention, I found the book filled with something more. The mother had a group of friends, a sisterhood, that stuck by her through the warm summer fun and the chill winter nights. The story focused on both of these aspects of life, eventually merging them together to show the hope of a young girl merging with the reality of a grown woman. Through this growth, she also realized the true nature of the love she shared with her mother.

A few days after I finished the novel, I noticed that the movie was playing on television. Of course, I recorded it. Today, I watched it with my daughter. (Okay, I watched it while she ate, snuggled, and napped.) They switched the order of some scenes and completely changed a couple of others. I believe they were trying to make some of the relationships seem less chaotic. Despite feeling that many of these changes, particularly the one that involves an elephant in the book, actually downplayed the love between mother and daughter, I enjoyed the ending they created for the movie.

As always, I fear giving away too much, so I will close with potentially unrelated thoughts:

We should all be grateful for those true friends who lift us up, love us even when we border on becoming monstrous, and bring us back to the best parts of ourselves. If you have friends like that, tell them how grateful you are and make time for whatever sisterhood rituals you have established. whether it is midnight smoothies, singing silly songs, or making treats and sharing them with others, make time to uplift each other.

Speaking of treats, I normally try to include a recipe, but my treat making has been a little spotty of late. My most recent decadent delight was a combination of mini pies that I made in muffin tins. I started by making a half batch recipe for Betty Crocker's banana cream pie (this is not exactly the same recipe I used but should work) and used the cream to make six banana cream pies before dumping an unknown amount of chocolate chips into the cream concoction that was left until it looked quite chocolatey and used that to fill my last six muffin-sized pie shells. (This even left me some pudding for my husband who doesn't understand the importance of pi day.) Then I used my leftover chocolate pies to celebrate Saint Paddy's Day by putting mint M&M's on top of the pie for a hint of green love.

[???] The Night Of Turkey Day

'Twas the night before turkey day, when all through the house

not a creature was stirring, not even the fat mouse.

The stuffing was stuffed in the turkey with care

In the hopes that the hungry family would soon be there.

The children raced all around the full halls

Forcing the adults to cling to the walls

And Mama in her apron, and I with my spoon

Prepared to be eating ever so soon.

When out in the kitchen arose such a clatter

We sprang from the table to see what was the matter

Away to the fridge we flew like a flash

To find the children eating the pie stash.

Chocolate on their lips, a little on each nose

and yet each struck an innocent pose 

As mama looked down with adoring eyes

And papa released the saddest of sighs 

But momma winked, so slow, so quick

As the littlest child took one more lick

And papa realized more pie was to be had

He couldn't punish the children or be mad

"Eat Pumpkin! Eat Chocolate!

Eat, Apple and Blueberry!

Then, coconut! Then, mincemeat!

Then, Pecan and Cherry!

We baked them all night!

We baked them all day!

And now in our tummies we put them away!

We'll eat them all!"

But first we eat turkey, juicy and sweet

And mashed potatoes that can't be beat

Though green beans will follow with corn

And stuffing comes out, nice and warm

And then, in a twinkling, the food disappears

and we stumble away as in past years.

We rub our big tummies, plump and round

And settle down so a nap can be found. 

And papa settles down in his comfy chair

Our voices become muffled by warm air

And some of us watch as his eyes gently close

Awaiting the chorus he plays with his nose.

All wrapped in a blanket with a tummy full of food

Papa becomes such a musical dude

But he doesn't know, for he is fast asleep

And only children a wakeful rhythm keep

With eyelids closed tight and lips slightly open

Papa is dreaming that he's eating again

Behind his eyes, a turkey leg disappears

Amidst the charming children's cheers

But in the waking world, his snores wreck the peace

And the children's wild antics cease

As they turn in amazement to watch his round belly

Bouncing a happy tune since it is full of jelly

He wakes with a start to see so many eyes

Staring and marveling at one so wise

And he smiles such a smile they jump to give hugs

Even the little girl who only gives shrugs

He spoke not a word, just hugged everyone

and rose so slowly to renew the fun

For one piece of chilled pumpkin pie

Couldn't fail to catch his eye

And mama watches with a smile on her face

To have her whole family in one place

But now she is weary from winning the feast fight,

"Happy turkey day to all and now a good night!"

Props to Clement Clark Moore who wrote A Visit From St. Nicholas a.k.a. 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, with which we should all be familiar. If you are not, 'tis the season to educate yourself on all things Christmas from tales of childish wonder to the deeper wonder found in the scriptures.