Now, look here, let’s jest us make a assumption right up front, for the sake o’ assumin’.
Mama’s Apple Pie is hot!
I mean straight from the oven hot, ooey gooey apple sauces oozin’ an’ bubblin’ from the slits Mama sliced on the top, shades of golden flakin’ crust pinched and shiny with Mama’s sugar butter glaze catchin’ the afternoon light, steam still a dancin’ and twistin’, hoverin’ jest above them toasty tasty mountains o’ de-light.
There ain’t no way under God’s good Heaven we Goodwells aim to wait clear till supper to have us a slice! We come ninety to nothin’ from all over the farm, the ‘roma bein’ that intoxicatin’! And here we set.
Mama knew we’d come. ‘Course she did. I’d lay odds she fanned the steam risin’ from them pies with her apron straight out through the screen door to the back porch jest to catch our ‘ttention!
She loves fresh baked Apple Pie jest like the rest o’ us! An’ like the rest o’ us Goodwells, she don’t aim to wait!
Now, to my left elbow round the big round kitchen table, there sets sweet little sister Loreen, quietest o’ all us.
She’s Apple Pie. Plain an’ simple an’ so hot it’ll turn yer insides to charcoal. She dives in right now, no lookin’ left nor right nor heavenward. That slip o’a girl can eat!
Next roun’d be Lincoln, oldest o’ all us Goodwell young ‘uns.
He’s Apple Pie swimmin’ in fast meltin’ homemade ice cream he’n Lawrence, next oldest, been churning since noon. Takin’ turns addin’ salt an’ crankin’ an’ soppin’ water melts eekin’ from the churn they set up out to the barn.
Next to Linc., there’d be Lawrence, for one don’t go without the other’n.
Lawrence, big an’ handsome, he comes next ‘roun’ the circle.
Mama’s give him a bigger slice that most, he’s a growin’ boy still, says she. He takes it as his due, big ol’ slice looks to be still shiny with heat. He eats his pie with a spoon, takin’ a giant bite, then divin’ into the tub o’ vaniller ice cream what sets in the middle for community eatin’, never even botherin’ to serve hisself, dippin’ his used utensil in, bite by bite, even standin’ to get him some leverage. Mama stands aside, proud.
Grandpap, he sets jest next, an’ he don’t abide bad manners no how, so pops Lawrence upside the head, grabbin’ the boy’s spoon an’ dippin’ a heap into Lawrence’s bowl. Lawrence looks woeful but don’t say nothin’. That’s be disprespectful. He knows, an’how, Mama’ll let him lick the paddle later.
Grandpap, he knows, too. No matter. He made his point. He takes his Apple Pie a little cool, waitin’ fer the rest o’ us to gobble up our share. Then, slow-like, he finds the slice o’ Velveeta cheese Mama set on one o’ her purty plates, the ones she saves fer when the ladies come over fer chats and such. With the patience o’ Job an’ the determination o’ David, he wrassles that thick yeller slice to the top o’ his cooled pie, then comtemplates what he hath wrought, jest fer a heartbeat. Then with that same slow deliveration, he takes him his first bite, sliced with his fork jest so.
Ain’t nothin’, ain’t NOTHIN’ like watchin’ Grandpap rapturous, eyes slit to near naught, chewin’ like he been give elixir from God’s sweet angels.
Now Daddy, he’s at Grandpap’s elbow.
He takes his pie how-some-ever Mama gives it to him. He never fails to grab her hand an’ tell her how ‘ppreciative he his, how he don’t know how he got so lucky. An’ Mama, lightin’ up like she ain’t never been treated so good, she agrees he IS lucky, an’ smacks his shoulder then giggles like the light o’ my life down to the school, Emily Sage Hawthorne.
Mama, she fair floats ‘roun’ the table, never once settin’, dippin’ more vaniller, slicin’ more pie, wipin’ the mouths of the twins who set next, who fuss and squirm an’ would durn druther wipe they mouths (an’ they noses) on their sleeves. She herself always waits till we’re most done, then I catch her catchin’ me catchin’ her divin’ into the bits at the bottoms of the near empty pie plates. We always share a smile, me and Mama. We understand each other.
Them twins, Louis and Lawton, they eat jest slivers o’ Mama’s Apple Pie which only serve as the base of mountains of vaniller, more int’rusted in grabbin’ spoons backhanded and stirrin’ and beatin’ they ice cream into a Apple Pie spotted soup.
An’ they git more on themselves than in. Ain’t seven too old fer that tomfoolery?
Comin’ roun’ the table, there’d be Luce, near a twin to me, but a tad older. An odd duck, she eats her Apple Pie real slow. She peels the shiny crusty top off the sliced gooey cinnamoned apples underneath, settin’ it to the side. Then one by one, she spears them apple slices, lookin’ at em’ close, them poppin’ them whole into her mouth. She finishes up with the sauce-laden crust, tiltin’ her head way back, slidin’ pieces in. Ain’t certain I ever seen her chew.
Who knows why Luce does what she does? Ain’t none o’ us wish to attract her wrath, so we let it slide.
Prissy Livvie, the oldest o’ the Goodwell girls, she eats itty bitty bits, hardly barely openin’ her mouth, then wipin’ the corners like they’d be an’thin’ there. Ain’t no ice cream for her. Says it makes her fat. But I tell you what, she still don’t miss Mama’s Apple Pie! And she does clean her plate!
Then there’s me. Liam Goodwell, third son o’ the Goodwells o’ Denton County.
An’ I’ll take Mama’s Apple Pie hot or cold or buried under vaniller, an’how, an’ any time.
‘Cept don’t give me no Velvetta. Don’t look natural, somehow.