Pumpkin Pie

From the first time I met John’s family, they welcomed me because I was someone that John cared about.

 But it was also clear, especially when we women were all together, that I was “different”.

 I was both a city girl and a college girl and they were not sure about me. We had some common interests, gardening, sewing, and so forth…. but I was still “different”.

 I took some home-made cinnamon rolls to a family gathering and they were a big hit… but there was still this “feeling”…… The women still seemed a bit “leery” of me, and I wanted so much for them to like me…

   As autumn came to a close, and preparations were being made for the family Thanksgiving dinner, I asked (as I had done on previous family occasions) if there was anything I could bring to the dinner.

 This time I was surprised when rather than the usual request for a relish tray, apparently even city girls can manage a relish tray, John’s mother asked if I would bring a pumpkin pie. I was glad the conversation was by phone so she could not see the mix of astonishment and terror that swept across my face. 

       John was standing nearby and he *did* see the look. When I was off the phone, he asked, a look of great concern on his face, “What did she say to you?”

 “She wants me to bring (grand pause) a pumpkin pie, “ I said, trembling. 

 A wave of relief and pride swept over his face as he said: “ Oh, that’s so cool!”

 still trembling, I replied, “No! you don’t understand. I’ve never made a pie before!”

 Shaking his head in confusion “ What? But your rolls and bread and cookies are all so good….”

 “Right,” I said, “but no pies. I don’t even know where to start!”

 Standing there, I could feel any hope of earning his mother’s respect draining away.

 I was doomed.

 As if reading my mind John said “Don’t worry! It’s just a pie. Why do you think people say ‘easy as pie’? You’ll do fine!” 

 “Uh” was my only reply. Fortunately, I had a little time to look for a recipe and ask some older women that I knew for some “tips”.

    The week of Thanksgiving was upon us. I went to the grocery store and gathered my ingredients. One of my friends had not only given me some “tips” she had also given me a pie pan to use. 

 So, the day before Thanksgiving I followed the recipe meticulously and made the crust and filling. 

 At that time we had two “functioning” ovens. One of them was in the kitchen on our main floor, which was also where John taught his guitar students. So, I used the other one which was upstairs. The upstairs oven did not have an accurate temperature gauge so I had a dimestore oven thermometer to give me an approximation of the oven temp. 

   I preheated the oven to what I thought was the right temp and put the pie in to bake.

 This oven had a solid metal door that opened “side to side” rather than dropping down and forward as most do. The door made it difficult to check the progress while baking, especially with something as “jiggly” as a pumpkin pie. So, I set my kitchen timer and waited. 

   Now, I might have never made a pie before but I did know enough about baking to check the progress before the timer went off, especially when it smelled like something was getting close to done.

 Ten minutes or so before the timer went off I cautiously opened the oven door.

 Smoke poured forth into the room.

 I turned off the oven and took out the pie. The crust was darker than I thought it should have been and the top was black.

       Sobbing, I opened the windows to clear the smoke from the room. I sat and stared at the pie as it cooled. What was I to do now? This was the pumpkin pie for the family Thanksgiving dinner. Both of the grandmas and other family members would be gathered at John’s parents’ house for the occasion.

      When John finished teaching for the day I heard him bouncing up the stairs and he asked before he entered the room “How’d it….” pausing as he entered the room and in a more somber tone “go?”

 “Oh, Caroline! What happened?”

 “I….. don't…..know…” I sobbed. “What are we gonna do Jim? This is horrible!”

 “Don’t cry – We’ll, um, hey – the store’s still open – let’s go”

      Normally I would not have dreamt of taking “store-bought” anything to a family dinner but at this point, what choice did I have. So, off we went.

       45 minutes and 2 grocery stores later we came home with carrots, celery, olives and pickles for a relish tray because there was not one pie of any flavor to be found.

      The next morning I solemnly arranged an abundant relish tray, feeling more than a little defeated. I would be forever relegated to bringing relish trays to family events for the rest of my married life.

      We were all ready to go and I stood, relish tray in hand waiting for John to open the car door.

 “Where’s the pie?” he asked as he opened the car door.

 “What? It’s in the house. I can’t take that!”

 “You can and you will! Now go get it!” handing me the house key.

 “But…. I… but….”

 He grabbed the key from my hand and went back to the house. He returned with the pie and set it in the back seat.

 “John!” I exclaimed, feeling a mix of anger and despair.  

 His blue eyes pleaded with me as he firmly but lovingly replied

 “trust me. It will be worse if you don’t take it. She’ll think you didn’t even try. I know my mother.”

      I sunk down in the seat of the car and rode silently the entire 38 miles to my certain humiliation.

We pulled into the driveway of his parents’ house. John got out of the car and snatched up the relish tray, leaving me to carry the pie. I meekly followed him into the house where his mother was in the kitchen working on the meal. The table was set. The serving dishes all waited patiently on the counters to be filled with the steaming feast she had prepared.

      John handed the relish tray to his mother. “What’s this for?” she snapped. 

 “It’s for you,” he said, with an impish twinkle in his eye. “Oh stop it. Put it over there” she said, motioning to the side counter where another relish tray was already sitting.

       “Where’s the pie?” she asked both of us.

 John turned and nodded at me. I sheepishly held it out in front of me, not daring to look at her.

 “Well, what’s the matter? Put it over there” and she motioned to another counter where both an apple and a cherry pie were proudly displayed. When I saw the other pies I felt slight relief that there were other dessert options but even more mortified at the state of my pie.

       Slightly above a whisper, I said: “Um, I think you’d better look at my pie.”

 As she continued stirring her vegetables she said “Well, let’s see it then”

 I gingerly lifted the foil that had been hiding my disastrous dessert and immediately looked back down at the floor mumbling “I’m sorry.”

       When I looked up she had stopped stirring and stood with the spoon still in her hand, looking at the pie.

       I felt hot and queasy with embarrassment. 

 She smiled at me with a blend of pity and fondness that I will never forget. 

 “It’s not that bad”

 “What? It’s terrible!”

 “No” she insisted, shrugging her shoulders. “We can fix this”.

 My mouth fell open.

 She put down her spoon and went to the silverware drawer from which she took a table knife and a spatula.

 She went to the refrigerator and took out a tub of cool whip.

 She then went to work scraping the blackened top off of the pie. Dipping her finger into the filling she tasted it and exclaimed: “This is delicious!” I was dumbstruck.

 “This is too good to throw away”

 She then covered the entire pie with cool whip. 

 “No one will ever know,” she said, smiling as she put the pie in the refrigerator. 

 I stood staring at her in amazement as she went back to her stirring. I mechanically started helping put the finishing touches on the table settings. We worked silently together for a few minutes. 

 Then, she came over and put her hand on my shoulder. “You needed a bigger pie pan, and you should always put the pan on a cookie sheet to catch the spills. Your filling bubbled over and burnt on the oven floor."

       I just looked at her. 

 She patted my shoulder and with a grin said “We all gotta learn somehow honey”

 I was stunned.

 The rest of the family soon arrived and we all enjoyed the beautiful dinner that she had made. 

 We cleared the dishes and it was time for dessert.

 “We have 3 kinds of pie,” she announced and began serving each their requested flavor.

 I don’t remember who chose which pie except for one person. 

 John’s Grandma Nora (I learned later that in her day she was *the* blue ribbon winner for pies at the county fair year after year) declared “Well it’s Thanksgiving isn’t it - Ya better have pumpkin pie”

       “uh oh!” said that small voice inside my head. 

 Pie was served to all and we all dug in.

 After a few bites of her pie, Grandma Nora put down her fork and in a loud voice said. 

 “This is the damn toughest crust I’ve ever ate! You make this, Ellie?” 

 I opened my mouth to start to explain when John’s mom said

 “That’s right Nora- never could match yours”

 I looked at John’s mom with disbelief. She just smiled and winked at me.

 John, sitting next to me, took his hand from the table and patted my knee a few times.

      From that day forward John’s mom and I grew as close as any mother and daughter have ever been.