spoon of potatoes left, desert was announced. Harriett backed her way through the swinging door. As she turned around Al’s eyes took in the full magnificence of her peach pie. The full crusted pie was the color of light oak. Small cuts in the top of the crust allowed the sweet juice to erupt and cover parts of the golden brown treasure.
The small
dessert plates were stacked on the buffet and within moments they were bearing
their riches to every diner. Voices were quiet as taste buds weighed, judged, and measured each sterling silver forkful. Even the forks seemed subdued as
they came into contact with the plate. As if noise and collision might lessen
the excellence of peach and crust.
Al sat and looked
at his piece of pie for a few seconds, as if he had to decide when and if his
fork engaged the treasure. Placing his fork against the crust, it took a
moderate amount of pressure to get the golden brown treasure to yield. Once in
his mouth the crust seemed to melt. Almost
in a stupor, Al asked her, “What on earth makes this pie crust so delicious?”
Harriet, with a slight smile, replied with one word, “Lard.”
After dinner
Al found himself in the kitchen helping Harriet clean up, much to her
discomfort and protest. “Harriet,” he said, “You remind me of a favorite character
from my childhood. She went by Aunt Bee. Would you mind if I called you that,
called you Aunt Bee?” With a snicker and
covering her mouth out of embarrassment she said, “Oh Al, I don’t care if you
want to call me Aunt Bee.”
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