Gran Ma Ma's Sweet Potato Pie

Sharon was in a panic. In two days she was hosting her family’s annual Christmas reunion at her house.  A tradition see sawing back and forth between the Washington family members for as long as she can remember.  This year it was her turn to be hostess. 

The thought made her hair stand on end.  Not only did she have to cook the traditional turkey and stuffing dinner for twenty or more of her cousins, aunts, uncles, grand kids, nephews, nieces, sister and brother in laws, she had to bake eight or nine of gran ma ma’s famous sweet potato pies from a recipe handed down from one family member to the next for over a hundred years. 

Sharon yanked the kitchen drawer open and rifled through it.  “This is not good. Think Sharon.  Harold!”

Sharon’s husband  heard her summons just as he was pouring another glass of the smooth creamy concoction of eggnog into his glass.  Her voice nearly made him drop the pitcher.  I know that sound.  Something’s up. That high pitched squeal of hers indicated only one thing.  BIG TROUBLE.  Use caution when approaching her.  He set the pitcher of eggnog down and took a sip hoping the slight delay in replying would cool her jets a bit.  “Not enough ‘POP’.  This will never do.”  

 In two days Sharon’s family would descend upon their house.

From past meetings or reunions with them Harold knew he would need a good, strong  elixir to meet so many relatives, most he doesn’t even remember,  crammed into their house rambling on and on about this or that; none of which they said was important to him. He added a long pour of bourbon then a slug of rum to the eggnog and took a sip.  “Whoa! Much better.”

“Harold!”

He sighed and under his breath, “No use delaying the inevitable.”  “Coming dear,”  he shouted back. With a glass of eggnog in hand he left the library and entered the kitchen.

“What happened here. A hurricane?”  Papers and kitchen utensils were lying  all about the floor, counters and island.  He bent down and picked up a crumpled wad of paper. He set his glass down and unfurled the wad. “When did we buy tires for the Mercedes?”

“Oh Harold. Not now. Can’t you see I’m in a panic?”

Harold wadded up the paper and tossed it onto the granite covered island then picked up his glass. “You have to taste this. I really have surpassed myself this year.”  Good ploy.  Try to keep her mind off what’s bothering her. “Here. Take a sip.”

Sharon looked at Harold then up at the kitchen clock. “It’s nine in the morning Harold.”

“So it is. It must be noon somewhere. C’mon hon. Try some.”

“Only if you help me.”

“Of course. What can I do?”

Sharon took the glass and brought it to her mouth. “Find something?”

She took a long swallow then wiped off her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s gran ma ma’s recipe for sweet potato pie. I lost it.. This is too strong don’t you think?”

Harold took his now half-filled glass back.  “Should I call the police? And if I’m going to host your family I think it may be too weak.”

“Don’t be funny.  This is serious. They’ll kill me if I lost it. Or worse. Disown me.”

“It can’t be all that. Can it.”

“You don’t understand. Since eighteen hundred and twenty one gran ma ma has been using  this recipe to make sweet potato pie.  It’s not only a recipe but a piece of the Washington family history.”

“How so?”

“You don’t remember much do you?  You don’t  remember I told you in July all about gran ma ma’s recipe and what it means to the family when I found out we were hosting this year’s Christmas reunion. Huh?”

“Of course I do.”   But he really didn’t. “Something about a curse or something will befall anyone who …”

Sharon stomped her foot. “Stop it.  Her recipe was the only thing she brought with her when she escaped slavery.  It represents more than just a pie, it represents freedom to a fourteen year old girl who risked her life to settle down here in Cleveland.  Over a thousand miles Adda Mae Washington walked to end up here.”

Harold walked up to her and embraced her.  “I’m sorry honey. I was just trying to lighten your mood.”  He took a deep breath and kissed her softly.  “Okay. What can I do?”

“Help me find the recipe.”

“Call me weak I don’t care, but this search will need reinforcements.  I’ll go get the pitcher of eggnog and a glass for you. Where are the girls?”

“Out.”

Sharon wiped the tear from her eye as she envisioned how it must have been for her gran ma ma to trek north all those years ago.  To lose the recipe would surely be blasphemy. 

 Harold returned with the pitcher and a glass.  He filled hers then his. “Here you go."

Sharon took her glass. "I was thinking. Just call one of the aunts or something.”

Sharon took a sip.  “Damn Harold. Did you add more liquor to this?”

“No. Good isn’t it?

She set the glass down. “I can’t call anyone. That’s the kicker.”

“Why not? Surely someone in the family has lost it before or made a copy of it.”

“I know this will sound, well, strange, but we are not allowed to make a copy of it. Gran ma ma’s orders.”

“No offense dear, but that seems rather idiotic to me.  Doesn’t it to you?”

“In today’s world yes.  But remember, this was how she made her living back then. Selling her pies, doing laundry and such.  After her husband Alden died she had to take care of  her kids and these pies were basically her entire income.”

“Sorry dear. I still don’t get it.”

“The recipe was like, like the KFC recipe. Sacred. She probably thought if someone got it they would take away her profits.  So when she died she specifically wrote in her will that the recipe shall never be copied but passed down first to her children then to their children and so on. I guess it was the only way back then to safe guard the recipe.”

“From who?”

“I don’t know Harold. I wasn’t living back then. I have to find it period.  Are you going to help or not.”

Harold took a sip of his eggnog and set his glass down. We have to find this recipe. She’s so distraught right now nothing in the world will right this ship unless we find it.  “I’ll tell you what. Let’s take a breath and step back.” 

“I can’t right now.”

“Listen.  Here, have a seat.”  He pushes a stool up to her. He could see in her eyes  the worry she was harboring.  She looked sad and lost.  “C’mon, I’ve got a plan but it won’t work if you don’t sit down.”

“A plan huh.  All right. I’m game.” She took a seat.

“The first thing we have to do is retrace your steps.  When did you get the recipe?”

“Two days ago. A FedEx envelope came from Aunt Loretta. She’s the one who last had it.”

“Good. Now think. What did you do with it when you got it?”

“I’ve gone through this already Harold. I’ve retraced every step since I got it”

This is going to turn ugly if she can’t find this.  He took of sip of his eggnog.  “Please, humor me. Now go on. Tell me what you did.”

An hour later Harold had the full story.  Sharon received the recipe, brought it into the kitchen, opened the envelope and took out the browned paper recipe that someone over the years had protected in a plastic sleeve.  About ten minutes after she opened the envelope  their German Sheppard,  Butch, came in followed by their ten year old daughter, Tiffany.  She remembered Butch standing on his hind legs and putting his snout near the letter. She put the recipe on the island counter away from Butch’s prying, gave him a treat then made Tiffany a snack.  “After that Tiff and I went upstairs where her and I wrapped your Christmas present. Then I came down and made dinner.” 

“What did I get this year?"

"Harold. Stay on point"

"Right. Was it there when you came back to the kitchen?”

Sharon took a sip of her eggnog. “That’s the weird part. I don’t remember. I think it was about three that morning I woke up panicked. I remember running downstairs, turning on the kitchen lights to discover it wasn’t there.”

“It had to have been,” he suggested.  “You must have seen it when you came back down to make dinner.”

“I don’t know. Alexis came in about six. I asked her how her classes went and well, you know college kids she just said “fine” and went upstairs.  I made dinner, made sure my menu was set for Christmas dinner; checked on the two turkeys to make sure they were thawing and made sure I bought everything for Thursday’s dinner.  I went to bed then woke up at three.” 

“Somethings askew here. If this recipe was so important I’m sure you would have put it somewhere safe. Right?”

“I checked everywhere. It’s gone I tell you. Gone.”

They ordered Chinese for dinner and afterwards Harold called a family meeting. 

“All right everyone. Your mom is in deep trouble. She lost the family recipe for your gran ma ma's infamous sweet potato pie.  We need to find it.” 

“Really Mom.  I have a biology final that is due tonight.” 

“Alexis. You mean you can’t take twenty minutes to help your mom?” 

“I didn’t lose it. So why should..”

“Enough. Whether you like it or not, you’re helping.  Go search the basement.”

“What am I even looking for?”

Sharon got up from her chair and went over to Alexis.  “It’s a single sheet of brown paper within a plastic sleeve. Please Alex, I need you.”  She looked at Tiffany.  “And you young lady. Will you search the den?”

“Sure mom.” 

The kids left on their missions. Harold came up to Sharon.  “I figured out what to do.”

“What?”

“The way I see it, no one has ever copied the recipe, right?”

“As far as I know.”

“Okay then. If we can’t find it make the pies from memory.”

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Think of it. How many times have you eaten gran ma ma’s pie?”

“As of this year, forty one times.”

“And each time, we were at a similar family gathering as we are about to hold in a few days, so..”

“I don’t like where I think this is going.”

“You must have talked to the aunts and such about how great the pie is and they must have hinted of what was in it, especially since they had to have made it.  Right?”

“You know. You’re making sense which is rather scary.  But you’re right.  I remember how Aunt Cecilla complained one year that Aunt Meg didn’t put enough lemon in.” Sharon poured the remaining eggnog in the pitcher into her glass.  

“Shall I make another pitcher?”

“You’re kidding right?”

“Well, actually, no.”

She took a long sip.  “Give me a sec to piece this together.  Go get a pencil and paper.”

Harold got up, returned shortly, sat down in his favorite chair in the library, took a long swallow of eggnog and took a deep breath, placed the pad of paper on his knee and held the pencil at the ready.   “Okay. Proceed..”  

“Well, lemon extract for sure. And, and sweet potatoes. No! Wait!  Or was it yams or both?”

“Does it matter?” 

“I don’t know. Does it?”

Harold got up. Went to his desk and typed the question into his laptop.  “Ha Ha!  Listen to this. Louisiana sweet potato growers marketed their orange-fleshed potatoes as “yams” to distinguish them from other states' produce in the 1930s.” 

Sharon ran her fingers through her hair.  “It’s no use. No matter if I use Yams or Sweet Potatoes, salted or unsalted butter it won’t work.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sharon jumped up, paced about the library.  “Even if I remember all the ingredients I don’t know how much of each.  Do I use two tablespoons of salt or two teaspoons?  What temperatures do I cook them at?  How many sticks of butter? Oh, and the lemon extract, the key ingredient based on what Aunt Julia said, how much?”

She’s a mess.  If it was up to me I’d cancel this whole affair, but I know how much this means to her.  He walked over to her, put his arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze.  “Relax. It will be okay. Tomorrow we’ll go and buy twenty pies if we have to.”

Sharon placed both hands on his shoulders and smiled.  “Did I ever tell you, you can be a real blessing at times.”

“On several occasions.”

She kissed his cheek. “You are  such the  liar.  No. We won’t be buying any pies. This is what we’re going to do, but first, I have to ask. You in or out?”

Harold took his glass, raised it as did Sharon and touched his to hers.  “Here, here. For better or worse. I’m in.” 

An hour later the children reported in on their search. No recipe.

The Big Day

So far so good.  Everyone liked the turkey and overall the entire dinner went well until Aunt Cecilla fell asleep at the table.  I never knew someone her age could snore so loud.  Sharon laughed. 

 Harold came in and wrapped his arm around her waist then kissed her forehead.  “Everything was great. You and the kids did a fantastic job.”

“Include yourself buster.  Thanks. I have to admit, it did go well didn’t it?”

“Of course. And now for the moment everyone is waiting for.  You know I had to almost hold them off with a bat to keep them from coming into the kitchen.  Your Uncle Ralph nearly barreled me over trying to help, but no, I held him off with a leg of turkey and a shot of Jack Daniels. Ready?”

“I’m scared to death. I spent  hours on these pies these last two days making each from scratch and memory.  I was able to get a hold of four of the aunts who had baked these pies before pretending this aunt or that left out something when they made their pies.  And from that knowledge and with the help of the internet”  She waved her hand over the kitchen island now covered with ten pies. “Viola. Gran ma ma’s sweet potato pies.”

“You are a clever one.”

“Deceitful you mean. I know I forgot something. And if this doesn’t go right, be ready to be disowned by the family.”

“You and the kids are all I need dear.”  

“Thank you dear. Well, let’s serve the crowd.”

Sharon and Harold place five pies each on a silver tray and leave the kitchen. 

“I think you did it girl. You just pulled off the impossible,”  Harold whispered to Sharon as they entered the kitchen with their empty trays. Just as Sharon and Harold are setting their trays on the counter the kitchen door leading to the back yard opens.  Alexis walks in followed by Butch.

“Mom. Look what Butch has.”

Sharon looks down at Butch. In his mouth is a chewed up plastic sleeve.  Sharon snatches it from the dog’s mouth. “Oh my God!  Gran ma ma’s recipe!”