Father’s Day

When I was 9, I wanted to bake a pie for Father’s Day all by myself. My mom was a consummate baker. Whatever she prepared was delicious and beautiful. I had watched her baking for a long time, so I reasoned that I could do the same thing, with the same results. I decided to make a raisin cream pie topped with a perfect, gold-tipped meringue. We would have it for supper.

Mom offered to help with the crust. I declined. I measured the flour and salt, cut in the shortening, and sprinkled in the water. I gathered the dough into a ball, and proceeded to roll it out. It was just like playing with playdough, I thought to myself! Who needed any help? I placed the circle of dough into the waiting pie plate, pricked it all over with a fork, and Mom popped it into the preheated oven. Mom set the timer for me. I cleaned up the scraps and wiped the rolling pin and board. That phase of clean up was just about finished when the timer went off. The crust was baked! It looked like a picture. I set it aside to cool. I broke off a tiny piece to taste. It seemed rather firm.

Next, I separated eggs. I finally managed to salvage 4 egg whites free from yolks for the delicious, tall meringue. Setting the whites aside, I worked on the pudding filling. Corn starch, sugar, a pinch of salt, eggs and milk were soon mixed and on the stovetop in the copper-bottomed saucepan. I stirred vigorously. The mixture boiled. I added a tablespoon of butter and a teaspoon of vanilla. I had forgotten about the raisins. Hastily, I dumped them from the package. I measured the raisins, then stirred them into the pudding. Mom set the saucepan on a cooling rack while I made the perfect meringue.

With the Sunbeam mixer, I beat the egg whites with a little cream of tartar, then sugar and vanilla. The peaks were forming nicely. The stove was preheating. Occasionally, Mom would smile at me, just to be friendly. She asked if she could watch the assembly. Graciously, I agreed. I was a little bit afraid to place the pie into the hot oven. I was hoping she would offer to do so.

I poured the pudding and raisin mixture into the bake pie crust. The filling seemed awfully thin. Doubtless it would thicken up when it baked in the over. Next, I spooned the meringue on top of the filling. It was a little tricky to spread out the meringue over pudding. Undaunted, I vigorously smeared the meringue near the edges of the pie plate. Finally, the meringue covered the filling, more or less. Kindly, Mom slide the pie into the oven. Together, we cleared up the kitchen, occasionally glancing through the glass front door of the oven to check the progress of the Father’s Day raisin cream pie. The meringue seemed to be a little flatter than usual.

Mom and I scraped and wiped, scrubbed and washed the incredible mountain of dishes, dribbled egg whites, and spilled sugar, flour and milk. Finally, the kitchen was no longer buried under the mass of utensils and ingredients.

The oven timer went off, and Mom removed the pie from the oven to a cooling rack. The meringue was wrinkled and flat. Around the edges of the pie, an occasional dried out raisin appeared, buoyed up by the gloppy yellow pudding.

It was about an hour until suppertime. No doubt the pie would improve while it cooled. Mom and I washed sugar off of the soles of our shoes, and then we scrubbed the kitchen floor. It was a lot more work than I had realized to clean up after baking a pie.

Dad came in from doing the evening chores. He washed at the sink, then sat down at the table for supper. We had stew made from yesterday’s noon meal of roast beef and vegetables.

“I baked a pie all by myself.”

Dad raised his eyebrows. He looked at Mom and then he looked at me.

We finished the stew.

I placed the raisin cream pie in front of my dad, so that he could see the Father’s Day pie I had created, all by myself.

Mom handed me a knife and a spatula. I tried to cut the pie into 6 even slices. There was something wrong with the knife. It wasn’t cutting through the crust. I pressed harder. I handed the knife to Mom. Her knuckles turned white while she applied extreme pressure to the knife. When she had wrestled the pie into serving pieces, she handed me the spatula to dip up the slices for dessert. The filling was soupy and the raisins were like small black erasers. The meringue rivaled shoe leather. I handed the first slice to Dad, then a piece to Mom, and then served myself. At that moment, I realized the pie was not the masterpiece I had anticipated.

As we chewed the pie, the crunching of the crust was the only sound for quite some time.

The sloppy filling and hard raisins dripped from the fork tines. No one said a word.

The pie was terrible.

Then, the unthinkable happened. My dad asked for a second piece. We never had seconds for dessert.

Mom scooped up a second piece for Dad, and then a second piece onto her own plate. She placed the last slice on my own not yet empty plate.

“We will only get to have your very first Father’s Day pie one time,” Dad said.

Mom nodded in agreement.

Together, we slogged through that raisin meringue pie. Our plates were not scraped clean when we laid down our forks. It wasn’t a great pie. It wasn’t even a decent pie. But it was my first solo pie, a gift for Father’s Day. Mom and Dad made it possible. They respected the efforts, even though the pie was far from the delicious treat I had hoped for. They gave me grace and courage to try it again another time.

“Mom and I will wash the dishes tonight,” Dad said. “You can go in and read your book while we clean up the kitchen.”

Relieved, I curled up on the couch in the living room with my library book. The Father’s Day pie had turned out sort of okay. The next pie would be better. Father’s Day was a success.