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It all began one Christmas long ago, back in the era of the 1980’s. I was single, pretending to be a cowgirl in Texas, near both brothers and their families. While we often made the journey to our parents’ home in Mississippi, we were known to stay in Houston some years. (Those trips to Mississippi are another story...)
This particular Christmas pulled on my heartstrings. I was teaching English as a Second Language to immigrant junior high students. It was a great experience, as my students were eager to learn and thankful to me for helping. Somehow, I also found myself volunteering as a Student Council co-sponsor for the 8th grade. Part of our “helping others” program that year was a collection of foods brought in by students to prepare Christmas Food Boxes and toys for families in need. It turned out that many of those in need were my students’ families. Yet, they brought in food to donate to others. Witnessing this was a lesson in grace and gratitude for me, but I had more to learn this particular Christmas. I helped the vice-principal deliver the food boxes on the last afternoon before Christmas holidays. Many of the families lived in trailers, not really mobile homes, just small trailers that had seen much better days. There were holes in the floor of one; they had been carefully covered with a bit of wood and cardboard. Another family had a new baby; there was no room for a crib. The baby was nestled in blankets in a drawer that had been removed to use as a bed. The drawer was under the kitchen sink, where it was warm next to the stove. And yet – these families greeted us kindly and thankfully. They knew we were coming, and many had prepared food for us! It was another lesson for me: to appreciate what I had always taken for granted – a warm bed to sleep in and food on the table. Somehow, I’m embarrassed to say, the lessons from this whole experience weren't learned immediately. Instead, I became impatient and slipped into a “bad mood” – thinking my own family's Christmas was excessive and needless. Those two words had never occurred to me during Christmas, but that year they were stuck both in my head and my attitude. My parents traveled from Mississippi to celebrate with my brothers and me. Christmas Day was at my brother and sis-in-law’s (Jackie and Jane’s) house. I was told to bring not one, but TWO chocolate pies. This was not just any chocolate pie. It was Mama's chocolate meringue pie, well-known during Thanksgiving and Christmas for its fluffy meringue top and its firm and creamy chocolate custard filling. I had tackled it before, but never on my own. Mama was always around to supervise. This year, however, during my time of need, she decided to spend quality time with her grandchildren instead of me. I tried very hard to be patient and joyful, but that miserable mood was still hanging over my head and somehow transferred itself right into those two pies. I’ve always heard that the finest cooking ingredient is love and that our emotions transfer into what we are cooking. I was about to become a believer. I didn’t give the famous chocolate pies quite enough love. Stirring endlessly is as necessary to any combo of hot milk and eggs, as it is to a gumbo roux. One must have either infinite patience, or a glass of wine to accomplish the deed. In hindsight, I should have poured an infinite glass. I made the pies, and thought they looked runny, but decided they would firm up after being in the refrigerator overnight. Nope, on Christmas morning, when we packed up gifts and food to go to my brother’s, those darn pies were trying to slosh right out of their pie plates. They were neither firm, nor creamy. Mama, being a kind-hearted person, said they were fine and only needed to sit for awhile. I looked at her incredulously, as the pies had literally “sat” in a cold fridge all night. My miserable mood was back in spades. Daddy and I put the pies on a dish cloth on the backseat floor of my NEW car. At the last turn onto my brother’s street, the pies slid into each other and sloshed chocolate filling all over the carpet of the new car. As a wise person likely said in times like this - that was the last straw! I pulled my car over and jumped out like a wasp was after me. As luck would have it, my brother’s house was on a street with a huge drainage ditch running along one side of the road. I grabbed one of those pies. My miserable mood magically disappeared with one swing of my arm, as I hurled that famous chocolate meringue pie into the ditch. Mama and Daddy just looked at me, probably wondering if was safer for them to walk the rest of the way to my brother’s. Daddy, never one to waste food, decided to play bodyguard to the second pie, before it could meet the fate of its pie sister. He grabbed the remaining pie and held it to his chest, protecting it from me and declaring that he would eat it no matter what. At that moment, I snapped out of THE MOOD and my ridiculous sideshow. I apologized and we drove on safely for two whole minutes to my brother’s house. Jackie came out to meet us and to help carry gifts and food inside. He took one look at the pie in Daddy’s chocolate-covered hands and said, “What happened?” As one, Mama and Daddy answered, “Don’t ask.” By this time Daddy was licking his fingers and declaring the pie to be delicious. I felt like such an idiot, but my miserable mood had flown into the ditch with the pie. Lessons were finally learned from the best "teachers" standing in front of me: No gift was as great as having parents and family so patient and good-hearted. This was my lesson for that Christmas and remains so even to this day. The moment we walked inside my brother, Jackie, grabbed a spoon and dug into the pie. A big brother teasing grin was on his face that dared me to say something. The salvaged chocolate pie, soupy though it was, got eaten and enjoyed. By day’s end, we all had a good laugh over my “moody” pies. That wasn’t the end. The story has been retold and laughed at over the decades by family and friends. During the holidays, I’m often asked, “Remember that pie? Are you going to make one this year?” I did go on to make more of those pies, patiently stirring, but always with a bit of trepidation. Have they ever turned out to be runny again? I’ll never tell; let’s just say I’ve never again hurled one into a ditch. ~~~Dedicated to my dear friend, Steve Wannamaker, who never lets me forget the day the chocolate pie flew into the ditch~ |
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