It is an unparalleled confectioner’s delight. The smell that hits the nose first is a note of caramel, even though it is just the sugar burning off the meringue. It is a study in beautiful beige tones: the sienna of the swirly top that always reminds me of a Dairy Queen dip cone, the golden brown of the flaky crust, the amber tones of my late grandmother’s glass pie plate. I wonder if I.M. Pei or Frank Lloyd Wright ever stood back and marveled at the sturdiness of a project the way I gaze at a pie. The ratio from crust to meringue tip needs to be at least double the distance from countertop to crust. That’s the fall of many a so-called baker, in my opinion. You can’t get a lofty enough meringue with just the leftover egg whites from the 3 yolks you use in the filling. You must employ extra egg whites, many extra egg whites. I call it the Lucille. It is as much my grandmother’s blood as it is her pie plate, after all. Pies are miracles.
Part 2 – the slow-motion mistake Holidays are stressful. I am the only cook in the house. I cannot deny that I sort of like it that way. Captains are protective of their ships. When the rubber hits the road, it’s far easier to steer through a storm solo. Too many pauses to inform others of where the whatsit is located or why you don’t have a thingamabobber and your meal is burned along with your dreams. I like autonomy both in the part where you get all the credit and the part where you take all the blame. That’s my story. One moment I was overthinking my plans for the dressing and halfway listening to my husband’s story from the other room. Meanwhile, I was also stirring, stirring, stirring. Custard pie fillings are complicated. You almost but not all the way boil as you stir a neverending figure eight with a wooden spoon while chanting “8, 8, circle the bowl - 8, 8, circle the bowl.” He told a joke. I glanced over my right shoulder to show him the respect one deserves when engaging in civil pleasantries. The movement, coupled with my chant of 8’s, seemed to take 10 years. That’s when I saw it on the counter, the bowl of egg yolks I forgot to add to the pie filling. Hours later, as we cut into a gorgeous pie where the eggs hadn’t had the appropriate amount of time to cast their custardy spell into the pie filling, we were confronted with a runny goo. “What happened,” said the husband. “I don’t know,” said the wife. But she did. She did know.
Part 3 – pie 2.0
I made another pie. Everyone told me not to waste my time. You just can’t have Thanksgiving without the Lucille. Plus, I had to redeem myself. I can’t let this ship sink with my last pie being an utter failure. The violinist on the deck of a sinking Titanic didn’t refuse to play because his hands were freezing. I will not abandon my pie post because I’m exhausted from three days of cooking. “We will have pie. Everyone will eat pie,” says the Marie Antoinette of the Moon kitchen. It is best to agree with me when I enter this phase. Just nod politely and go take a nap somewhere. Trust me.
Part 4 – the comeback “This pie looks even better than the other one,” says the husband. He knows. Things are important to me that don’t matter to anyone else. He gets me. There will never be another chocolate pie like the chocolate pie from Thanksgiving 2024. Some will be a little better. Some will be a little blander. Some might have a marginally undercooked crust or less vanilla in the meringue. They are all special and unique in their own way. Later, we will cut into this pie. It will not be runny. The absurdity is not lost on me, either. Life is chock full of moments that don’t meet our expectations despite our best efforts. Sometimes you gotta lose it all to win it all back. It’s the gospel of the New Testament. Let the temple fall so the unbelievable build back can begin. Tonight, as I pray for more patience, for less of a perfectionist tendency, for more focus on others – less on me, and to see what really matters over what just doesn’t, I will reflect on this moment from today. If revenge is a dish best served cold, surely redemption should be extra sweet. Just don’t serve the world a pie with a 3-egg meringue. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
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