Thanksgiving Tales

Part 3: From Pan to Floor

While we guiltlessly indulged in many pies, even those meant for others, on the other side of the mountain a boy cried inwardly at the ruin of Thanksgiving dinner. His traditional apple pie splattered along the wooden floor.

Eric and spent many long half-hours preparing for the perfect pastry. He peeled the red skins, cored and sliced the Roman apples. He zested with zeal the orange and lemon. He carefully measured their juices and mixed in the flour, nutmeg, allspice and cinnamon. He even used Kosher salt as directed.

With the apples steeping and the sweet aroma heavy in the air Eric began the crust. In his excitement (or maybe spurned by a comment from Mike) Eric ground the pastry cutter into the mix. The screw gave under pressure and shot across the room, pinging against the window in a failed attempt to escape.

This should have warned of the upcoming disaster. But Eric continued his baking. Parchment paper in place he rolled out the crust, lined the dish with his pastry, and poured in his apple concoction. Then he added a crust top, folded over the edges and sealed them. After an egg wash and detailed cuts he placed the pie on the oven rack and gently shut the door.

The minutes rhythmically ticked filled with running sarcasm between the friends. Anticipation grew and beat the conversation silent. Eric’s mother went to the oven to take the pie out. She grabbed the door and lowered it parallel to the ground. As she pulled on the oven rack for a better angle of the pie the pan slid with momentum and hung suspended in the air. Eric instinctively opened his hands and lunged for the dish. Of all moment to make a wonderful catch this was it—until the intense heat of the glass transferred to his flesh. With blisters bubbling he dropped the pan, the squishy clatter evidence of the sight before him.

Maple-planked apple pie for a thankless Thanksgiving.