They paraded themselves across my childhood dining tables, sashaying after the turkey and potatoes had been cleared, warm and inviting in appearance, but not so appetizing in name. Mince Meat, with its deep brown glazed hue just had the wrong name. And, pumpkin? How could I allow myself to connect with the innards of the very same gourd who had adorned my front porch just weeks earlier in Jack-o-lantern form? And so it was that for much of my childhood I passed on pie.
I was about ten when I first met her. The progeny of Lloyd J. Harris, she sprung forth from the oven in her scanty tin bottoms, steam rising from her heart as she set upon the wire pie rack beside Mince and Pumpkin. The sultry smell of cinnamon and crisp apple wedges doused in the candied jelly filling wafted toward me from the center of the table. Enticing. Inviting. I was being seduced and I was too young and inexperienced to know the path down which I was headed.
She touched my lips. Hesitantly at first, for she was hot. So hot. The scoop of ice cream cooled her a bit, but there was no stopping the union. My tongue quickly became entwined with her crust, filling, and sweet frozen topping. We consummated our pairing over a second slice shortly afterward, officially calling ourselves an item, I guess.
We’ve been together for over 35 years now, Apple and I, and every holiday we connect to savor the ” thing” we have with one another.
I have to confess, though, the relationship has not been free of indiscretion. There was a ten-week affair with a French gal during my junior year of high school. Silky smooth, a thick, rich, and creamy blend of milk and chocolate, she taunted me from the food line as I bussed trays over the course of an entire Saturday at Harvest Cafeteria.
One afternoon, during my “dinner break,” I succumbed to her. The crispy homestyle fried chicken breast would be only part of the picture. She sat at the end of the line, her chill more a turn-on than not. Adorned with a curled sliver of chocolate, she proved too tempting to pass. Moments later, at the table, I pulled her to me before acknowledging the savory breast. The affair was short-lived, however, as I quit that first real job by Thanksgiving. i had shed my first mistress just in time to be reunited with Apple.
From then on, I labored to remain faithful to Apple. She was, after all, my first. The one. But once he’s succumbed to temptation, a man’s eyes will start looking elsewhere while guarding what he has to call his own. And, even if he doesn’t act upon what he sees, the thoughts are still there, lurking insidiously amidst every crust and tin.
I managed to fend off the urges until well into my twenties. Perhaps it was the altitude of Colorado’s front range, the effects of a Colorado Rocky Mountain High that compelled me to act on the slow rising temptation. Or, perhaps it was my first Thanksgiving apart from family, celebrated solely with friends and work colleagues. Regardless, I found another that Thanksgiving Day of 1991.
We had gathered at a friend’s home on the northwestern edge of Colorado Springs. The first major snows were finding their way across the front range, frosting the Kissing Camels as Pike’s Peak robed itself in a white gown plunging ever lower along its slopes. Each of us brought something to the table that Thanksgiving. Naturally, Apple and I made our appearance. Together. Me gently carrying her in my palm, careful not to sway her to the point of spilling out of her aluminum garb. The other was there, too. In a larger glass pie plate, herself covered in foil. Pumpkin.
The one I had shunned as a child had returned the year I had truly set out on my own as a man. Literally 1000 miles from home, seemingly a lifetime removed from the stabilizing reminders of my allegiance to Apple, I was reintroduced to “her,” the other pie in my life.
“It’s not really Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie, Chuck,” my friend Becky Baranyck had told me. A chorus of c’mons, and waves of nodding heads served only to drive me toward the point of no return.
“Careful, the pie plate is hot,” might have been the last words I heard. After all, “Mmm” technically isn’t a word. It’s more a moan of satisfaction, a background soundtrack to a sated desire.
Where I once only saw Apple accompanied by a nosegay of vanilla, I then saw Pumpkin sporting a corsage of whipped cream on her lapel. I was unable to avert my glance.
Worse, I placed the two before me. They sat side by side, the first and the mistress. Overcome with the revelry and celebration of all I had to be thankful for- a dream fulfilled in the mountains, good friends, and fellowship-I forked each of my devotees. Quickly, and without shame.
It might have seemed a tryst at the time. However, as the years tallied on and I moved from Colorado to Idaho, and back to the Midwest, it became more or less a matter of polygamy; pie-lygamy if you’re feeling witty.
Today, 21 years after what I believed was a momentary lapse in judgement, the gratification of a lusty, passion-fueled desire, Apple and Pumpkin have become a sort of sister-wives. Each has found her place at my table, neither taking precedence over the other. It’s a delicate balance, for sure. Each has her own needs, her own tastes to be met. So, in a spirit of fairness, each hosts my first bites on alternating nights. It’s been that way for over two decades running, now.
Tomorrow marks year 22 of our threesome. Being an even year, it’s Pumpkin who will grace my lips first. I’ll start by spreading her whipped topping across her surface, the warmth melting the semi-solid cream into milky rivulets that will seep into the wrinkles of her skin. Then, my first bite will begin at her apex, before I work my way back toward her firm crusty back end.The thick, not quite solid, spiced filling, and the heat moistened crust will converge on my tongue, just one more reason to give thanks.
With Pumpkin out of the way, I’ll turn 100% of my attention to Apple. My first. My original love. I’ll nestle the oversized scoop of Breyer’s Vanilla Bean beside her, allowing a few moments for the transition from cold white solid to warm milky liquid. Then, i’ll press against her, taking her and her creamy accoutrement in equal parts to my lips. They’ll part, and my tongue will find the blend of cool and warm to its liking.
Content, I will simply smile a peaceful smile, and release an easy, drawn-out reply, “Mmmm! I do so love me some pie.”
schlegsofminne 