There Will Be Pie

One of my favorite holiday memories is from Thanksgiving 1995, the year I lived in Sequim, Washington...


“God I hate this shit. Look at it, where is the charm? Where’s the artistry?” My father watches the television in disgust as a giant Sonic the Hedgehog balloon floats through New York City.

“There you go, you see that? That’s what I like, good ‘ol Charlie Brown. See the difference girls?”

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade continues on TV, but my father has returned his attention to the bird in the oven.
“Christ, it’s just burning up! There’s no juice in these damn Butterball birds!” The turkey was donated to our family by the Seventh Day Adventist Church of Port Angeles, whom my father had lied to four months ago, convincing them that we were avid “Adventists” in order to milk them for freebies. He’d already burned bridges with the Catholics and Protestants, but he considered the Adventists to be his kind of people-- after all, even they knew Sunday is a perfect day for sleeping in. He was able to use his health problems as an excuse to not have to attend the Saturday services, but assured them he practiced the faith at home.



“Why do they have to give the lowest quality items? Why not an organic turkey?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers, daddy,” I say, throwing one of his favorite sayings right back at him.
"Yes, but just because we're poor doesn't mean we don't have class, dammit!"

On the TV, Santa has made his way onto 34th Street in Manhattan. “Look at that, he doesn’t even have a real beard! They couldn’t even find a guy with a real beard?” My father catches a glimpse of the devastation on my 9-year old face. “Honey, he’s not the real Santa! The real Santa is busy getting ready for Christmas,” he quickly recovers. “Daddy! The potatoes are bubbling over!” My sister stands next to the stove, watching the black and white aluminum pot overflow with boiling water. Every few seconds liquid splashes into the burner, creating a large flame. “OUTTA MY WAY!” It’s time to eat. My father takes a seat on the couch, my sister next to him on the floor, and I alone sit at the table. I’m the baby, and I might spill. Couch and carpet privileges are reserved for the eldest in the family. Some families say grace before their Thanksgiving meal, my father turns on the basketball game and shouts at the TV. The turkey is dry, and there weren’t any drippings to make gravy with so we eat our mashed potatoes with margarine. But the canned cranberry sauce is as delicious as ever.

After the meal, we all three sit on the couch, stuffed, but unsatisfied. The turkey was generous, but it seems the church has forgotten the true meaning of Thanksgiving: Pumpkin Pie.

If there’s one thing my father can’t stand, it’s to see his daughters unhappy. We try to hide our disappointment, but he sees it in our eyes-- we need sugar. He goes into the kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards and the refrigerator. A bag of sugar, a little flour, but by no means is it the makings of a batch of cookie dough. Then he spies something tucked away far back in one of the bottom cupboards- a Coca-Cola box. Could it be? He reaches in, and, yes! There is one Coke can left! “Girls! Look what I found!” He waves the Coke can in his hand, and we are excited.

“I’m gonna put it in the freezer so it cools down faster,” he says. I can almost taste the sugary goodness. While the Coke can cools, we return our attention to the Suns and Lakers game on the screen. Half time, Suns ahead by two. Third Quarter, Suns trail by six. Thirty seconds left in the game, the teams are tied. Charles Barkley has the ball. Fifteen seconds left. Twelve seconds, Eight seconds. The clock dwindles down. Three…Two… he throws the ball up— BAM!!!

All three of us jump up from the explosion.
“What was that?” I say. Then, at the same moment, we all know. We had forgotten the Coke can in the freezer.
“Oh, NO!” My father rushes into the kitchen, and opens the freezer door. The can is mangled, sticky brown goo oozes down the freezer’s white interior walls. My sister sniffs. My father looks like he is about to cry. He turns his head away from us in shame, and looks out the window. Then he sees something.
“Wait a minute....” He rushes towards the front door, and I can sense the wheels in his head turning. My sister and I run over to the window to see what he is doing. We watch him as he looks around in all directions, then swiftly darts into the neighbor’s yard. He pauses, and looks in their window. The house is dark. Then, before I can ask my sister what he is doing, we observe in awe as he grabs a pumpkin off their porch and runs back towards our house. His eyes are wide and slightly manic-looking as he plops the giant orange vegetable down on the kitchen countertop. We need not ask any questions, he voices his thoughts out loud for us to hear.

“I’m gonna make a pumpkin pie- from scratch!” The sound of his voice matches the look in his eyes.
“Daddy, you don’t know how to make pumpkin pie,” my sister says nervously. “Sure I do, you just take out the seeds, cut up the meat and boil it, add some sugar, it’ll be easy! I’ve even got flour for a crust, and some cinnamon, don’t you worry girls, don’t-you-worry!” He says this in the same voice he uses with the neighbor’s golden retriever as he squishes my cheeks. My sister and I silently retreat back to the television, while our father cuts open the top of the pumpkin in the kitchen, whistling cheerfully.

“What’s gonna happen when it doesn’t work?” I whisper to my sister. “I don’t know, he’s gonna freak out!” she whispers back. Hours pass. My sister and I have kept our faces glued to the television screen, too fearful to turn our heads in the direction of the kitchen, where our father is still working on his “project.”

At last, he emerges. He is wearing oven mitts, and there is something between his hands. He bends down to show us. What the... Dear lord, it’s an actual pie! I mean, it really looks like a pie. It smells like a pie. But... does it taste like a pie? He sets it down on the living room carpet, then returns to the kitchen to grab a knife and two plates as my sister and I marvel at his creation. He cuts me a piece, and with great hesitation, I take a bite. Sugar. Pumpkin. Pie.

It’s delicious.

“See girls? Don’t I always make it work?” We look at our father with a sense of wonderment and sheer adoration. They say that when a person is put in a life and death situation, like being stranded in the wilderness, that their instincts kick in and they find themselves able to do things they would normally never think of or be able to do. I can only assume this was the case here, that in his desperation, he instinctively knew how to make a pie from scratch.

On the TV there’s an ad for a Classic Christmas compilation. “I'll Be Home For Christmas” by Bing Crosby plays. Our father sings, “I’ll, be dead, by Christmas.”
“D-a-a-addy!” my sister and I groan. We all laugh.