Crowds waxed and waned in and out of the bakery on the day before Thanksgiving, waiting in one line for a latte, queuing up in another to pick-up pre-orders. They left clutching pie-normous brown kraft paper shopping bags. Some left empty handed only to circle back and haggle for a crazy hot pie just out of the oven. It was equal parts Pie-mageddon, a gluten-free-for-all, a sugar cookie odyssey iced in ganache and flourless chocolate cake. Madness. All rolled up in one day, tied securely with twine. I’ve been told the final pie count was 637.
At four o’clock on Wednesday, I left work carrying three pies in the aforementioned kraft paper bag. The pies belonged to Marty and Cynthia, neighbors residing in an assisted care facility within walking distance of my house. I offered to deliver the pies because in Marty’s case I’ve been doing so for years, and for Cynthia, she confided in me that her family had recently taken away her car keys. In the future, I suppose Master/Master and Blondilocks will have to take away my car keys. I just hope they never have to take away my rolling pin.
As I eat a slice of pie for breakfast on the morning after Thanksgiving, I’m reminded once more of the importance of being thankful. I desperately want to mention to all of the folks who were unhappy, short-tempered and downright unpleasant because they didn’t get a pie on Wednesday, that in the end it really isn’t about the pie on the table. It’s about paying attention to the people seated around the table at that very moment, and thinking about those who had once sat there reminding the children to keep their elbows off the table.