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I was a wretched wife. Four months into my marriage I knew for certain this whole business was one of my biggest lamebrain mistakes. The central reason concerned the necessity of me moving from a city where I worked as a community organizer and wrote for a small social justice paper to the small farming town where my husband was the county reporter for the local newspaper. The only job I could find was as the morning waitress in the town’s best restaurant, where all sense of myself slowly ebbed away as I poured shots of whiskey in cups of coffee for the farmers’ who showed up for breakfast at 7 a.m.
My husband would often come around for lunch with the other reporters and sat at my station with the theory that I could join in their fun. This only underscored this marriage’s fault line. He was (and is) a fine husband, but I was sure I was making him miserable (bless his oblivious heart, he was ecstatically happy). Something had to give.
I served the reporters their hamburgers and beers, and, if he wasn’t on deadline, my husband ordered banana cream pie. His blissful face when he cut into the slice broke my heart. Soon, I saw the pie as a possible rescuer for my situation:
My husband loves pies + I bake pies = We will be forever one.
The problem was I never baked a pie, let alone a banana cream pie. Betty, the waitress who made the pies every day, wrote her recipe on the back of a check and I went off to gather all the ingredients. I worked on the pie for the rest of the afternoon and everything was going splendidly, even the crust, although it stuck to the counter and I ended up having to piece it together in the pie pan. I planned to put the meringue on just before dinner and let it brown while we ate.
My husband came home with a few of his coworkers. A pitcher of martinis was mixed and we sat around our attic apartment talking. The young men talked of the exciting stories they were working on. I half listened, focused on my secret plan: After the men left, we would have dinner, he his pie, and bliss would fill our tiny home. But another pitcher of drinks was mixed and somehow the five of us sat down to a meal I made for two.
Although I remembered to add the pie’s meringue before serving, I forgot to take it out of the oven until I saw smoke pouring from the broken oven door. The meringue was a sooty mess. The banana filling and crust were still okay, and the unsuspecting guests went on talking as I quickly spooned off some of the blackened meringue, whipped up more egg whites and, this time, stood right in front of the oven while the meringue lightly browned. Strong coffee was brewed, and I carried the pie to the table and cut it into serving pieces. My husband took a forkful and I watched his face melt into pleasure. I can’t tell you how the other men reacted nor stress enough how little I cared.
But here was proof to my silly equation. The pie was a lesson in how imperfections are not disasters and that, with effort, many difficulties can be overcome.
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Lemon meringue pie was the first pie I learned to make as a kid. I don't know how my mother had the patience to teach me as I certainly didn't have that same patience with my daughter. I don't bake pies anymore, but I'll order a slice of lemon or chocolate meringue pie from a home town restaurant when I go and it brings back all the memories. :)