Gramps's Pie

'For this recipe, d'you think the judges will check if she's alive?'

I nearly upended a tin of flour, giggling madly. Gramps could bake like nobody's business, but more importantly, he was a born storyteller. Whenever my parents dropped me off on fall weekends so they could cuddle up to create their own October warmth, Gramps and I baked cakes, tarts, tortes, rolls, cookies, donuts and last year, a particularly fine tower of choux pastry for his neighborhood's Annual Halloween Baking Contest. And like the sugar he spun, he had me spellbound with tales around his delicious entries: his Devil's Chocolate Cake was a secret family recipe meant to appease Lucifer himself; a delicate tart meant that yet another evil warlock had been thwarted from kidnapping a baby princess; and his choux tower was actually the gravestone of a once-sparkling Snow Queen whose vanity led her to a face-melting end: reflected in fleshy caramel strings around the croquembouche.

Sure, Gramps tended towards the macabre. It was probably a good thing that my parents were big patrons of the arts, and free babysitting. Either way, I loved baking with him, and it didn't sit right with me that the neighborhood didn't have the same good taste in ever crowning him, even once, as the winner of the contest. I often suspected that he felt the same as his entries got more and more elaborate by the installment. But he never let on.

This year, Gramps was baking a pie. And not just any regular kind -

'Meat. Sweet, young and juicy with a hint of rosemary. You get your crunch in the crust and then the rich filling...beats them fruit pies, that's for sure.'

'Will they accept this though, Gramps? Most people just like pumpkin or pecan around the holidays,' I said, setting our ingredients out carefully on the counter. As a rule, I scavenged or washed, and Gramps cooked. He didn't want me accidentally burning myself, even if I insisted I was a proper adult nine year-old already.

'Most people are duds. Don't worry, birdie. They'll love this. Remember what's in it?' I grinned and nodded. We were going to present the judges with the birth of a fiendish demon. The crust would have a carved hunk with slits for her nose and red eyes.

'Answer for me. Peephole first.'

I looked. It was Mrs. Brentwood from the last house on the block, and a perennial judge on the baking contest. She was also a perennial pain in Gramps's rear end because she never voted for him. She'd particularly struck a nerve last year as a swing vote, when he was down by one for the ultimate prize.

I told Gramps who it was, and he grimaced. 'Let her in, birdie. She's had a rough time lately.'

Mrs. Brentwood's face was stained with tears when I opened the door. I knew a little bit about why, though I'd never gotten the facts fully correct for myself: the previous week, some creep had kidnapped her six month-old baby and the police were still sending out what turned out to be frankly useless search parties. No one had seen hide or hair of her infant since.

'Oh, Belinda. You'll dehydrate yourself,' Gramps said, offering Mrs. Brentwood a glass of water. She tried hard not to break down further as she was ushered to a comfy chair but apparently Gramps's neighborly kindness was too much.

'I-I really o-only came t-t-to borrow a cup of s-sugar!' Gramps clucked and patted her hair. I hovered awkwardly by the living room door, before deciding that the best thing to do was to pour more water for Mrs. Brentwood. She wiped her nose on her wrist as she accepted.

'God, I'm a mess. I really can't stop crying. My sweet Annie, what sick, twisted clown could have taken a harmless young thing? What do you think he'll do to her?' She cried on Gramps's shoulder, soaking his linty sweater. I winced upon seeing strands of her hair and blouse getting caught in the fabric.

'There now, Belinda,' Gramps cooed. 'She'll come to you soon.' He gently prised her off his shoulder, and Mrs. Brentwood took the hint, gulping her second glass of water to regain some composure. 'Oh, Mark, Ava,' she said, nodding to me as well. 'You're being so good to me. I'm so sorry, Mark, for all I've said to you over the years about your untidy lawn and your muddy fence and your dog, and the kitchen and your food. I really hope you win this year. You always outdo yourself.'

'No offense taken. Tell you what, why don't you come over when our pie is done? Give you a little pre-taste before the contest, something to take your mind off matters.'

Mrs. Brentwood thanked Gramps profusely for his offer, almost spilling the sugar he lent over her feet. She took the wad of tissues I held out at arms' length and honked her way home.

When the door shut closed behind her, I turned to Gramps, frowning at something Mrs. Brentwood had let slip. 'Gramps, you don't have a dog.'

Gramps sighed. 'I think she just ran out of reasons to insult my cooking. If poor Annie hadn't disappeared, Belinda would have accused me of hoarding her dirty diapers.'

I marveled at Mrs. Brentwood's total idiocy. Whatever Gramps made, it never stopped me from having seconds. 'What a fussy lady.'

Gramps flashed me an appreciative smile. 'Right then, enough waffling.' He rolled up his sleeves. 'Let's get to work.'

Gramps cut cold butter into a mound of flour. I handed him shortening, salt and ice water to mix into the clumpy dough; between us, the crust was done very quickly. Gramps shaped the dough into a nice, lumpy ball with flakes of fat and thrust it into his kitchen refrigerator to chill for about two hours.

Gramps and I played card games by a cozy fire for an hour; he wanted to begin cooking the meat closer to when the crust was ready to be rolled out. I lost nearly every round, but Gramps made up for the sting each time by allowing me to choose a piece of candy from his "secret" treasure chest: the bottommost drawer in the kitchen cabinet. Soon, I was lolling around in a sugar-induced haze, and we hadn't even gotten to the best part.

'Head up there, little one. Need to get the filling out of the pantry mini-fridge, it's been there for a while now .'

I groaned. 'Graaaamps. Why can't you put everything in the kitchen before I visit?'

'Does my birdie want pancakes and waffles for breakfast or not?'

I scrambled to my feet, instantly revived.

The pantry was a cavernous space (to my nine year-old eyes) where Gramps stored the ingredients of his culinary excellence, and indeed, a mini-fridge that saved him whenever his kitchen unit was stuffed. It seemed like a chamber of hushed whispers, as though by entering, you were making a deal with something ancient and unknowable.

I was still scared of the dark, so I raced for the mini-fridge, which glowed a faint blue in the blackness. My eyes were squinted to avoid looking at anything that could scare me into accidentally falling and injuring myself. Inside the fridge, there was an oblong shape in a steel bowl. It smelled awfully funky; I gagged and clutched my stomach. For the first time ever, I found myself agreeing with Mrs. Brentwood's opinion.

I blinked and looked again. There it was: a pale pink lump of meat in cold saltwater. This seemed unlike anything I'd ever eaten - I couldn't stop staring, imagining Gramps ladling this - this organ into our beautiful pie crust.

Why did it look so alive?

I knew I was letting the pantry get to me. I quickly snatched up the bowl and kicked the door shut. This plunged me back into the dark, so I started running towards the kitchen - only I then skidded on something soft on the floor. 'OH!' I shrieked, terrified that the bowl was going to fly belly-up and shower its half-breathing contents all over me.

Luckily, it held out. I recovered as well, and made for the door. In the hall, I hesitated - then looked back into the open pantry entrance.

Spotlit by a single ray of light was a fuzzy miniature bootie.

I carried the bowl into the kitchen. 'You okay, birdie?' Gramps asked. He eyed me with concern while washing his hands. 'I heard you scream but you seemed alright a second afterwards.'

'Yes,' I said, a little dazed. 'Yes - uh, yes.' I handed him the bowl.

Gramps boiled the pink lump in a light vegetable broth. 'Birdie?' He asked, then clicked his fingers. I immediately snapped out of it - I was staring unblinkingly at the stock pot. 'Huh?'

'Can you get the oven for me? Preheat to 375, please.'

'Um. Sure.' I pressed the knob and carefully turned it so the numbers on the dial read exactly as Gramps specified. As it ticked up, I watched Gramps set an iron skillet on the stove. He added spoonfuls of clarified butter, before frying some bacon bits. He set these aside to sear the pink lump in the pan as well.

A timer dinged. 'Time to get the crust out!' Gramps exclaimed cheerfully. I opened the fridge to retrieve that chilled ball of dough. Gramps rolled it out neatly into an oven-safe dish, crimping away the leftover bits to pattern the top. I knew what was coming next.

'Gramps,' I said, the breath rushing through my breastbone. My lungs felt terribly full. He was slicing the pink lump into thin pieces. 'Gramps, are you really going to put that in the pie?'

'Why, yes.' He seemed very far away now as he pressed pale slices into the bottom of the crust, before layering them with fried bacon bits, red wine jus with black pepper and rosemary leaves. 'Why, yes. It all goes in.'

He braided leftover dough into an exquisite weave around the edge of the pie, like the kind I had seen on wicker bassinets in my fairytale books. He made me size and shape the nose, before slitting vents for the demon's eyes.

Then he brushed egg wash over our demon pie, and popped it into the oven. 'Be ready to eat, ugly and tasty, in forty-five minutes.' My grandfather twinkled at me.

He sat in his comfy armchair, turning on the TV as I sank into an ottoman. The minutes ticked by. I could hear every sound, feel his every breath even though Gramps was feet away from me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood, but the air was thick, too solid for me to say anything. I seemed to be asleep with my eyes open and aware.

'Birdie? Birdie!' I jumped. Gramps was standing almost nose-to-nose with me, eyes magnified in his owlish bifocals. 'Gramps! You scared me!'

'Well, I've only been calling you for the past five minutes. What's the matter? Did you fall in the pantry or something?'

I looked up at my grandfather, so tall; always lovely, with his kindly smile and wonderful stories. I smelled the pie baking in the oven. It filled the house, rich and savory.

'No, really. Nothing happened. It was just dark.'

Gramps shook his head fondly. 'Oh, sweetheart. You'll get over it, I promise. Now up you get - I've called Mrs. Brentwood over for that pre-tasting.'

He had me wear his big flowery mitts, and helped me heft the pie out of the oven. The demon looked positively incensed, the meat bubbling in her mean slit-eyes. I found myself stumbling away while Gramps set her on a wire rack to cool.

Soon, the doorbell rang. Once more, Gramps welcomed Mrs. Brentwood into his cozy home, now warm and piquant with the aroma from his pie. 'Oh, my!' She exclaimed, stepping over the threshold. 'Oh, that simply makes my mouth water!'

'Well, you're ready for a big slice!' Gramps said happily. He drove a serrated knife across the demon's cheek, carving a truly monstrous piece for Mrs. Brentwood. I observed them from Gramps's open living area, unable to come forward any closer.

Mrs. Brentwood sniffed a big whiff of the pie. She sunk a gleaming fork into it and took a bite.

As Mrs. Brentwood chewed, the color rushed into her cheeks. Her eyes rounded in pleasure. 'Mark! I was right, you really have surpassed yourself!' Gramps laughed, clapping his hands. 'So you like it? Really like it?'

'I genuinely doubt anyone will top it at the contest tomorrow, especially since you're finally prizing taste over form. You've got my vote. You are making this, exactly the same?' She said, spearing another bite.

Mrs. Brentwood was in much, much better spirits already. Gramps had made her feel very special.

'Definitely, I have everything I need,' Gramps smiled. Mrs. Brentwood chuckled as well, popping her forkful into her mouth. 'Oh, Mark. This is too good. May I have another?'

'Of course, Belinda.' Gramps's voice was soft. He watched her; she hardly noticed as she cut herself this second, even bigger slice of pie. 'Eat how much ever you like. It's all for you, every bit.'