Pies and Such

I remember the first time I was cooking for Thanksgiving. I was in my own rented condo, my daughter was a baby, and I was having people over. I decided to make an apple pie. I'd baked a lot as a kid - dessert was usually my job, along with the salad, for dinner each night - but I'd done mostly puddings and cakes. And cookies. Never a pie. Of any kind.

But how hard can it be? I'm a smart woman. I can read. I had a couple of great recipe books. The thing only took a few ingredients. There were a few lines of instructions. I could knock this thing out in no time.

And I did. That apple pie was the first thing prepared. It took about five minutes and it was in the oven. What was the big deal? Why hadn't I made pies before?

It had to bake a while. And for the last ten minutes, the top had to be covered. (I was making french apple pie with the cinnamon crunch on top.) The house smelled heavenly. Perfect. I couldn't wait to serve up my culinary treat.

But wait I did. Not even a finger dip until the next day when, dinner over, I picked up knife and server and plates and vanilla ice cream and, with a nervous smile on my face, proceeded to gift my guests with my surprise. Trepidation had built up overnight. What if it wasn't good? What would I offer for dessert? And yet, I was excited for my first bite and anyone who knows me knows that food is not something I get excited about. (Unless it's homemade sugar cookies at Christmas, but that's another story.)

The pie was a little bit tough to cut. No worry, though. I'd put in extra apples. That was, and is, my way when it comes to following directions in the kitchen. I take their suggestions, but the dishes are mine and I know that some things just taste better with a little change here and there. Definitely, I knew, more apples would add to this pie.

And it did. Boy did it. Oh my gosh did those extra apples add to that pie.

It held up well. My first worry was over. I served up tall and firm pieces of pie - no slumping over, watery masses on those plates! If I'd had a camera I would probably have taken pictures. Could maybe even have submitted them to some cooking magazine. Pure apple pie beauty.

I served myself last. And sat, fork in hand, waiting for everyone around the table to take their first bites. And to give me their opinions. I could have tasted my own pie, but it wasn't my opinion that really mattered. I needed to know I'd pleased my guests.

Everyone bit. And chewed. And chewed. And swallowed. They took another bite. And chewed. Talk went on. About this and that and things I can't remember. What I remember is that no one said a word about that pie. Deflated, thinking no one cared, I took a bite myself, still determined to take joy and pleasure from my first attempt at pie baking.

I bit. But I couldn't chew. Just couldn't make myself do it. Whatever was in my mouth did not in any way resemble the pie on my plate. Or the one in my dreams. There was something rancid in it. It wasn't the apples. I could taste them. They were there. They were good. But something was getting in the way of them.

I tried to be polite, but I was the hostess, it was my pie, and I couldn't find it in myself to be polite to me and make myself get that thing down. I spit it out. (Delicately, I promise.) And looked around the table at those sweet people trying to get that entire piece of pie down their throats.

I told them to stop. That something was wrong. I was truly perplexed. What could it be? I wondered aloud. I reiterated, step by step what I'd done to make my pie. I got out the cookbook. Read the instructions again.

I was supposed to slice apples, mix them with cinnamon and some other things and put them in a pie shell and top them with the crunch topping and bake it. I did all of that. Exactly like that. Could cinnamon go bad, I wondered? Also out loud. Could is form this stringy, unchewable substance that was throughout every single piece of pie on the table?

And then, one kind woman asked softly, Tara did you peel the apples before you sliced them?

Peel them? I asked. It didn't say to peel them. Look. I showed her my cookbook. No, it doesn't say to peel them, she agreed. But...

She was too kind to finish that sentence. Anyone in their right mind, without blond hair, would have KNOWN that you peel apples before you put them in pie.

We had ice cream for dessert. Everyone was full. And not just with food. We laughed and commiserated. Others told stories of their own first attempts at things. We grew closer over that ruined pie than we would have over ten perfect ones.

And isn't that what life is all about? We make mistakes and learn from them and are forgiven for them and gain not only knowledge but a closer understanding with those around us. We have to sit up to the fire to feel the warmth. We have experience it to truly know. We're imperfect because that makes life perfect.

I'm thankful for that.

And for those who are wondering, I went on to become THE Thanksgiving pie maker. Wherever I am for Thanksgiving, I bring the pies. I make four every year - a pecan, two pumpkin, and yes, an apple. And every single bite is eaten. Every year. The apples aren't baking yet, but they will be within hours. The house will smell heavenly. And tomorrow, everyone at my table will be glad that the trash is filled with peels.