The Peach Pie

My husband Frank and I have a pretty good partnership going. I love to bake and he loves to eat. Another plus in our marriage is that he likes to go backpacking in the high country of Colorado with his buddies, leaving me to wallow in solitude like a contented sow for a few delicious days. His latest ‘boy adventure’ happens to fall around the third anniversary of the first time we met—a momentous occasion that changed my life. So while he's up in the hills doing guy stuff,  I get introspective and begin to review my life before Frank waltzed into it via the Internet.  I pore over old journal entries describing my angst-filled single days and watch countless romantic comedies where equally angst filled women desperately search for Mr. Right.   Feeling very grateful to have found a loving partner at the ripe old age of sixty, I am suddenly inspired to surprise my adventuring backpacker with a homemade peach pie—his absolute favorite. It seems the perfect welcome home, happy third anniversary, and’ boy- do- I- ever- appreciate-you’ gesture. I decide that it must be made with fresh fruit and a pie crust made from scratch, even though I haven't made one since I discovered Mrs. Smith's pie crust in the freezer section.

Early Sunday morning before the coffee is even finished brewing, I get to work peeling peaches. Juice  is dripping all over the counter and running in sticky rivulets down my arm. Frank always kids me that he can tell what we’re going to have for dinner by looking at the kitchen floor. "Okay" I weakly defend myself, "so I’m a messy cook, but I always clean up afterwards". Once the succulent fruit is peeled and cut up into bite-sized chunks, I pull out my Great-Aunt Anna’s antique rolling pin and proceed to make an even bigger mess. After an epic struggle to roll the pie crust flat, I manage to peel it from the counter in a ragged piece, carefully coaxing most of it into a pie tin while the remaining greasy crumbs splatter to the floor. Covered with flour and shortening, I am humming happily, anticipating how tickled my sweetie will be when he gets home. When it's all done, I triumphantly step back to view my masterpiece. Quite simply, it is a thing of beauty, complete with a delicate lattice work of dough artfully topping the glistening fruit. “Look out, Martha” I mutter to myself smugly, as I carefully place the pie in the warm oven. While it's baking, I hover like an anxious stage mother at her darling child's piano recital, hoping she'll make it through without any mistakes. Finally, when the filling is bubbly and the crust a light golden brown, I fetch a towel, open the door, and grab the sides of the pie tin, gloating at the spectacular success of my efforts. I am still admiring my tour de force, when suddenly, the pie tin collapses and slips from my hands. In a nano-second, my perfect creation turns into an unappetizing mess oozing all over the oven and kitchen floor. Rather than the delectable treat I've been envisioning, it looks like the aftermath of a surprise visit from the Unabomber. I stand for a minute trying to decide whether I should laugh or cry. Then I think of all the ingenious ways the Universe continues to remind me that despite our best efforts, we are never guaranteed the results we desire. I remember all of the times my life felt like it had collapsed when a relationship or a job I desperately wanted slipped through my fingers. But each time, I recovered and ended up with something far better than I ever could have imagined.  Life has taught me that while I don't have  control over a particular outcome, I always have a choice how to respond when it doesn't turn out as well as I anticipated. So in this moment, I laugh because despite the unfortunate outcome of Project Pie, I realize it hasn't in any way, shape, or form diminished the loving intention with which I made it.  In a way, the gooey mess that I manage to salvage seems a more genuine loving gesture than had it turned out perfectly, sort of like a crude crayon picture lovingly drawn by a four year old.

When Frank gets home, the doughy goop sitting on the counter does not at all deter him from attacking it like a hungry bear fresh out of hibernation. He is so touched by all the trouble I've gone to just to please him, that he probably wouldn’t care if it were a cow pie. With a tender kiss, he assures me that the pie is utterly delicious as he helps himself to another giant piece.