in parentheses

David Grubb, a retired Coastguard Warrant Officer, has creatively written since childhood, yet career/family always came first. He’s changing that aspect of life and loving every minute. His work appears in Touchstone, Toasted Cheese, 1:1000, Sixfold.org, The Elevation Review, Every Day Fiction, The Abstract Elephant, The Bookends Review, Wingless Dreamer, In Parentheses, Havik, Novus, Ab Terra Flash Fiction, The Dead Mule School, ShowBear Family Circus, & winner of the Col. Darron L. Wright Award (veteran entry). http://www.agrubbylife.com Debut novel: A Trip From God Book 1.

His work has been previously feature on In Parentheses.

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Pyrant

When I walk into a diner, I expect pie, not mind-blowing burst every taste bud—even the dead ones—pie like Mom’s or Grandpa Brydon’s. Good, edible pie that pushes the flavors up the back of my throat and into my brain inundating me with nostalgia. Pie that takes me back to uncontrollable Hard-Ons, candy bars that were twenty-five percent bigger, and the dollar when it lit up a haggard bum’s face with honest gratitude.

Back to wasted days of my youth in the scraggy Sandhills of Nebraska that mounded both sides of the fertile, loamy North Platte river valley like millions of breasts in varying cup sizes. Where time was an endless loop of seeds in the ground followed by corn out of our ears and the incessant call to the river from the hot fields or off the rattletrap tractor all summer long. A monotonous sunup to sundown dirt farming existence where rain dictated fleeting moments of freedom and all other weather created varietal degrees of blessed slavery.

Beautiful, wonder filled servitude where people of all walks of life eke out their hardscrabble existence predicated by animals, crops, machinery, and the almighty land instead of a punch clock or corporate greed. To a land forgotten in time where pie is the spectacular result of bounties that showcase a life of luxury and abundance, most often void of monetary surplus and wealth in its grotesque ugliness. Nebraskans never indulge in cakes of decadence or confections of dissolution, not even the crumbs, but by God they sup on humble American apple pie stamped certified grade A with blue ribbons, and strawberry-rhubarb to fucking die for.

Delectable, mouthwatering circles of delight crafted, almost as a must have-on-hands-at-all-times by-product, from the farmer’s blood, sweat, and tears that decries he or she or they are the demigods of their acreage, whether their postage stamp farm is an acre or their enormous ranch spreads over one thousand hectares.

Pie, pie, pie in every flavor the fly over state, the good life, equality before the law can produce from produce that thrives in its bready recesses and expanses or foodstuffs got from far-off places like California and Oklahoma. Flavors that give credence to innovation like gooseberry, mulberry, and banana-split, which sit side-by-side with faithful scrumptiousness of pumpkin, mincemeat, and cherry. Pie on the shelves of small, poky restaurants that come from their local community, or made on premise, ultimately drawing aficionados hailing from every point of the globe.

Pies with fluffy crusts that crumble from the lightest touch of a fork and the textbook, razor-incision that brings forth a perfect, gelatinous gooeyness of fruit, compote, chocolate, or Fritos. Pie in your face, pie in the sky, pie à la mode, pies on parade, and piecaken—the dessert turducken.

All and any of which brings me into a state of Zen, a piebald pony in full trot, mouth frothed at the bit and sweat drenched under the blanket. A man size hunger tumbled by the weighty plate of peach pie under a snowcapped mountain of whipped cream. The sublime of key lime pie that transcends boundaries of state and locality, which by any other name would taste so sour.

Piety

In the diner of choice, on a windswept Tuesday, I scanned the menu for pie, but there’s none listed. I searched the room for signage, declaring they serve pie. The old trolley car converted into a full functioning restaurant had red and white swivel stools lining the long retro fabricated counter. At its far end, there’s a chalkboard on an easel emblazoned with the day’s specials. Written in smaller print at the bottom were the desserts, but pie wasn’t on the list. Out loud but to myself I read apple crisp, bread pudding, and an array of cookies.

My face fell into a surliness that was as easy to feel as see. The platinum blonde cross-dressing dude, who’s prettier than the brunette high schooler, made a quick summation.

“Good gawd, you need a shot with a beer chaser instead of a hamburger steak platter.” He tapped his pen on the stained, crumpled, and well over halfway used up order pad.

“Do you serve alcohol?”

“Hell, no honey, but if we did your first round would be on me. Why so glum?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll have an iced tea and the Rueben… any chance for potato salad instead of fries?”

“For you, I’d make the pot salad myself.”

I nodded to the chalkboard. “Is that all you have for dessert?”

“Shit, we’d be a poor excuse for a diner if we lacked the most important staple—pie.”

“You’ve got pie?”

“Oh, we’ve got pie. An entire menu dedicated to it. What’s your pleasure?”

“Strawberry Rhubarb.”

“You want à la mode or naked?” He hissed the last word.

“Is the ice cream any good?”

“Best damn dairy in a hundred klicks.”

“À la mode it is. And the pie?”

“If you can find a better piece in the tristate area, you be sure to let me in on your little secret.”

When the slice of strawberry rhubarb arrived, the tendril of steam caused from the ice cream on top of the warmed slice halted all thought. In the kitchen of my childhood, a similar tendril rose above a piece of my mom’s—for no reason in particular—hand crafted pie. A regular weekday in an obscure month during the late seventies, and we had tart-as-fuck cherry pie for dessert. The scoop of ice cream on top of Mom’s slice was homemade: heavy cream from our milk cows slow churned in a bath of ice and salt. And the cherries were hand picked off a good neighbor’s tree during prime season.

The pie in front of me on the diner’s table, splitting the benches like an anvil cloud, would pale in comparison. The comparison game had long since been put to rest and I savor diner pie on merits far below the Mom standard. If I judged all pie against Mom’s specialty, I’d never enjoy another slice for as long as I could fork mouthfuls of it into my maw.

So, the piece of pie sat while the ice cream drizzled down the pink edge and pooled onto the empty curve of the opaque plate. With my fork in hand, I became poised and ready to separate the perfectly pointed tip from the wide triangular body. I waited, as if I needed the sun to peek out from the clouds and shine through the windows to highlight the calorie dense treat like the golden statue from the movie Indiana Jones.

“Jeez, you sure take your pie about as serious as anyone I’ve ever met.” The server acted like he might slide into the bench on the opposite side and fucked if I even knew he was there, let alone would I have stopped him.

After a long pause I cleared my throat and said, “Yeah, I get a little nutty about pie.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your ritual.”

“Thanks.”

After he waked off, I severed the tip while carefully ensuring there’s a generous amount of ice cream next to it on my fork. As the combo hit my tongue, and the metal tines drew out from my lips like freeing a martini olive from a plastic trident, I’m enveloped in two worlds at once. In the present, the flavors burst across my tongue in a sharp contrast of tartness and sweet. The ice cream coaxed an additional sugary joy into the mix and gave the bite further luxuriousness.

In Mom’s kitchen there were smells that battled for my attention; the woodstove’s oaken smoke; dishwater detergent from a full load churning away; and the funk of Mom’s pet pig Sargent Friday. Her most recent runt, grown into a 500lb soon to be freezer full of bacon, ham, and rump roasts behemoth rooting around on the floor for crumbs like one of our Labradors.

When the dessert disappears, it’s all gone… not a fucking crumb, drizzle, or wisp tarnished the plate. I even liked the fork clean, as if it just came out of the slide through dishwasher in the loud commercial kitchen. And the memories of childhood were once again more distant than the rain clouds that had scuttled off to the west over some obscure cove.

I sat there in my quiet trance, unwilling to break it by checking my iPhone for texts or news. My server hovered by the coffee pots, fumbling with his pad as if he understood ogling me would disturb my serenity. The other patrons were old and talked as infrequent as strangers on a subway train after midnight.

Minutes passed, and the bill floated down onto the table like a pale broadleaf onto a sandy desert. My server strove for invisibility while ensuring I understood he was eligible. In another life, in another world, I might’ve let him take me home to explain why pie had such an effect on me. As it is, I was eager to get home to my wife and kids for our pre-dinner routine.

Pietri Dish

Every year in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, my apprehension builds. Sure, it’s because the fatpocalypse is about to descend, but more so because a dirty three letter word begins to drop in our house like rotten apples from a young tree. It goes something like this:

My wife presses her hands against the kitchen island while she does dozens of squats. “Should I make pumpkin and pecan pie, or would you prefer apple and sweet potato?”

“Whatever you’re thinking is fine.”

“We could mix things up and I’ll make a cobbler and cheesecake or lemon meringue?”

For a moment, the air tastes fresher and the sunlight cascading in the kitchen’s dirty windowpanes becomes more brilliant than it has been all fall. I lean over to tie my shoe and the long pew-like bench kicks forward. I save myself from face-planting on our hardwood floors by kicking my half-tied shoe forward to stop my momentum. The shoestrings run through my fingers like rappelling lines after the brake gives way.

My wife says, “Nah, you l-o-v-e pie. I’ll keep it traditional.”

“Perfect.” I rub my hands together to relieve the stinging sensation.

Outside in the yard, leaves carpet the long uncut grass in giant mosaic patterns. I haul downed branches to the growing burn pile while I try to get pie off my mind. A recent storm brought down more branches than I can count, and the work seems endless.

No matter how much sweat spills down my temples or fresh cuts line my palms, pie is all I can concentrate on. My second wife and I would celebrate our wedding anniversary a few days after the holiday. All my hopes of her baking a decent pie faded back when we started dating six years ago. She baked superb coffee cakes, mouthwatering cookies of all types, and even loaves of bread that rivaled our local bakeries. But she was inept at pie-fection, more so than anyone I’d ever met.

I toss another large limb from a fir tree on top of the dozens heaped together and contemplate the best way to deal with the upcoming onslaught of epic pie disappointment. My doldrums go beyond Thanksgiving and Christmas because my wife’s pie baking fancy lasts most of the winter. She takes some time to ease into pie extravaganza, but once established I might have to eat thirty terrible attempts before spring.

My wife and kids bumble out of the front door for a quick hour of play before the youngest takes her nap. My wife says, “Geez, there’re so many limbs. Are you ever going to get them all picked up?”

“Not anytime soon.”

“Maybe when I get Giselle down, I can come out and help.”

I wipe sweat from my brow. “The monitor’s broken.”

“Oh shit, that’s right. Sorry?”

“There’s no rush, it’s not like I’m still mowing the grass.”

She shakes her head and frowns. “True, but once it snows, then the damn things will be there until spring.”

“The first day of summer is more like it.”

The kids take off to the swing set and she steps over a limb to follow. “You want to hire someone?”

“Nah, I’ll get it done, even if its later rather than sooner.”

“My hero. You deserve a treat. How about a preliminary pie?”

I stifle a shudder. “No need to put yourself out.”

“My pleasure. What’re you hankering for?”

I want to come clean and tell her I would rather eat an awful frozen Marie Callender’s—any flavor—than another one of hers. We were in the phase of our marriage where truth sets a better sail to freedom than lying. Even so, I began trying to free another sizeable limb from a group under a tree in a mass so tangled it will be difficult to unravel.

She doesn’t press me for an answer and joins the kids at the swing set. Corey, our oldest, climbs up the ladder and works his way across the monkey bars as I pull on the stubborn limb, grunting. He moves back and forth across the bars a half dozen times before I free the limb and drag it to the pile. About a half hour later, she comes back to discuss my treat.

Before she says anything, I say, “Babe, I loathe your pies.”

“Did you say love or loathe? Before you answer, be sure it’s what you mean.”

My hesitation is short, but like the stubborn ass I am, the response is hollow, “Love.”

“You’re such a dick. I’ve been making pies for how long? And you’re just now telling me you loathe them?” She says loathe in a way that gives it three o’s and blends it with the word them as if it’s a hyphenate.

“Love, I said, love.”

“You might as well come clean, you fucking coward.”

I take a few steps closer to where she’s standing. “Your pies suck.”

“All of them? Why am I learning about this now?”

More hesitation will provide her with my genuine answer, so I remain silent. She paces the yard. Her reaction irritates me more than it should and even recognizing my fault does little to curb my penance to aggravate things.

“Should I have told you that first pie you baked when we started going out, a caramel Dutch apple with streusel topping, was terrible?”

“Yes, no, ack I don’t know. You ate two enormous pieces and licked the plate clean.”

“You gave me head almost every time we had sex and then years later, I find out it’s not your thing.”

She stopped pacing and glared at me. “Oh, don’t you dare try to Touché me. Pie and sex aren’t even in the same ball field.”

“One could argue…”

“Finish that sentence and you’ll regret it.”

“Right, well, now you know.”

“And with the holidays coming, what the hell am I supposed to do? Like I needed the added stress of screwing up the pies.”

“I mean, part of the problem is you’re competing against my mom.”

“Oh, my god. Your mom hasn’t even so much as stirred a pot anytime she’s been in town for one of the big dinners. She informed me her years of cooking are over.” She bends over and picks up a long stick. “Oh Christ. That smug look on her face anytime she was near my pies makes sense now.”

I pivot my body for a more defensive stance as I’m uncertain if she’ll hit me with the stick. “I’ve got a thing for pie, ever since childhood, and if it’s not stellar, then I eat it if I must, but hate every morsel.”

“This is so screwed up. I’ll never make another pie so long as I live, we’ll just buy the damn things from now on.” She tosses the stick onto the pile.

“Everything else you cook or bake is incredible.”

“Don’t, just don’t.”

Soon, I’m standing near the pile with another limb over my head, ready to launch it on top of the others. I heave it as hard as I can, but it gets caught and rebounds. The thick part of the branch hits my leg and takes away some skin. As the blood trickles down my leg, I turn around, then walk across the yard to get the next one.

The kids are swinging as high as they can go, and my wife won’t even look at me. I’m relieved, but also terrified, and I’m awed that pie no longer consumes my thoughts. It’s replaced by a different nagging. Losing another wife to such an innocuous matter is a flavor I have no desire to taste. I’m confident our marriage is strong enough to withstand our squabble, yet I’ve gotten that way wrong before.

End

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