The Finest Blueberry Pie There IsPosted: March 16, 2015
Some who read my blog know my friend, John. I think those who do know him would agree on this point – we’re sad for those who don’t.
All of us agree that he is someone everyone should know, but disagree on why. Some would point out that John talks with a funny accent and that makes him wicked fun to listen to. And that would be right. Who talks like that, y’all? No one.
Others might point out his fabulous wife as a reason to know him, and I’d agree there. You could also mention his noble profession, his fine sons, his charitable deeds or his taste in music.
But there is one that it is good to know John that a lot of people don’t receive the chance to know of. His mom.
Enough About John, Lets Talk About Betty
John’s mom, Betty, is a wonderful woman who I met last year when I received an invitation to dinner at her home.
Yes, people invite me to dinner. Most of the time, it’s because they like my wife. They like my wife, and have no clue the risk that they’re taking by allowing her to bring me. That’s how I ended up eating at John’s mom’s table.
And on that warm summer evening, at that table, I had an amazing dinner. How good was it? It was so good that it made me realize why John is bigger than I am. He is bigger because it would be a sin not to eat whatever his mother cooks. You can say what you want about John, but he is no sinner.
At dinner’s end, there was blueberry pie. Perhaps you think you’ve had good blueberry pie. So did I. Let me tell you something – you and I were wrong. Until that warm summer evening, I had no idea what a blueberry pie could be.
Pie That Redefines The Word
I could tell you that I wish you could enjoy Betty’s blueberry pie. If I said that, I would be lying. It would be a lie because every slice of that blueberry pie that you get your fork in to is a slice that I won’t have. I love all of you who read what I write, but to love you enough to give up some of this pie? Well that just wouldn’t be natural.
As I enjoyed that pie, I apparently made noises that made it clear how taken I was by its flaky crusted, sweet perfection. John’s mom wrapped up half a pie and sent it home with my wife and I. When we got home, I did something with that pie that I’m ashamed of.
I’m ashamed, but I’m going to tell you what I did because it advances my point. Never let it be said that I allowed my shame to affect my writing.
When we got home, I said to my wife “go on in, I’ll get our stuff from the car”. She smiled her “you’re good to me” smile and went inside. I carried the pie inside and put in the fridge. But I didn’t just put it in the fridge. I took out other items, put the pie at the back and then hid it behind other food.
I didn’t share one bite of it with my wife. Gradually, I ate it when she was not around. I later admitted my crime and threw myself upon the mercy of the court. Let’s face it though, the pie was gone by the time I did that. That’s how good this blueberry pie was.
I Get A Second Chance At Pie
This weekend, John and I were at a large social gathering with our wives. John’s mom sent along a blueberry pie. It was ridiculously good. Others got a taste, but I escaped with most of the pie. I put it in our fridge when I got it home. I didn’t hide it. Mrs. Omawarisan and each I enjoyed a slice last night.
So while some who know John enjoy him on his own merits, insiders know that his wife and sons are the people in his household that you really want to meet. But then, there are the lucky few of us who are beyond insiders. We are the people who are smart enough to marry someone who was not only John’s friend before I met her, but charming enough to gain an invitation to dinner at John’s mom’s table. And we get pie.
And we feel sorry for those of you who ain’t us.
Thanks, Betty. The pie is perfect. Your son, well, he needs some work.
Maybe we can discuss it over pie.
(Happy Birthday, ma’am)