CAW CAW

Four and twenty blackbirds had better fly away fast. My mother is baking pies today for the church fair and so far doesn’t know which fillings to use. The dough is already rolled paper thin and carefully laid on 3 smooth pieces of waxed paper. Lemon meringue, cherry, apple are no challenge. Her pies must be outstanding, unique. Simple minded women can do the ordinary and she is not ordinary. Last year she got a blue ribbon for a pie nobody ate. One of the judges tossed it under the table in a refuse carton. That was her ‘eel’ pie.

How she solidified guacamole I don’t know but she was despondent for days when it didn’t even get Honorable Mention. The tiny dough sombreros didn’t help at all.

Guinea pig that she has made me, I was forced to taste the Salmon pie last season and was surprised it tasted like croquettes on salty crackers. There were no takers, no prize and I was fed the same thing for lunch three days in a row.

Today she is pacing, nervous, idealess. There is a spark in her eyes at last. ‘What will you make, Mom?’ ‘Hurry to the market for me. Pick out 10 of the best purple plums Smitty has. Be sure they are ripe but not too ripe. Go, go!’ ‘Mom, they aren’t in season. I tried three places.’ ‘Go back, get the yellow ones, firm. They’ll work.’

I wash them, dry them with a clean white kitchen towel, carefully remove the pits. The artiste is brewing up a concoction with sour cream and blueberry preserves. Her hand mixer comes out of the sideboard and gently stirs the gloop, leaving the plums streaked. The halved, now quartered, plums are rolled in enough brown sugar to cause pimples.

All of the pieces are gently layered on the dough and the top crust gets pierced and fluted. Mother smiles at me. ‘Into the oven at 350 for 51 minutes will be perfect. You’ll see, Sweetie Plum. This has to be a winner. It’s you in a pie. Haven’t I always called you ‘Sweetie Plum?’I don’t bother telling her she never called me that, ever, ever.

‘Darling, I want all the chicken breasts that are in the garage freezer. I’m ready for my next pie.’ There must be four lbs. there, each in a small plastic bag. They will thaw fast. ‘Get my two quart soup pot for me, will you, Sweetie Pie?’ Mom coats the inside, including the lid, with Pam and starts tossing stuff in. Lots of diced carrots, onions, corn kernels, celery, grated apples, ginger, salt, pepper, sugar and the the fridge is almost empty. The whole shebang simmers for two hours and cools. Mom encrusts the pot with her thin rolled dough. The mixture actually smells good but looks like lumpy crud. ‘Sweetie, I’ll be back in 15 minutes. Don’t do anything except make sure nothing burns.’ As soon as Mom returns she bakes the whole thing, including the pot, to a light golden brown.

Her last step makes me gag. I heave my lunch on the kitchen floor. Look out or you will heave too. Her piece’ de resistance is a killer. She centers in the middle of the toasted top a real chicken head, slightly bloody, puffs up her ego and laughs to me.

‘I bet you never saw a real Chicken Pot Pie before did you, Sweetie. This is going to win the Blue Ribbon for the tastiest, most unusual pie.

It doesn’t.