chocolate pie

Last night I made a chocolate pie. It seemed the perfect thing to do for Isaac, who had had a very long, hard day and came home from swim practice totally exhausted. But he had more to do, for the yard had dried out enough from our weekend rains to finally mow (you will recall a peculiar mix-up that involved moving a yard sale a week ago). So while he ate his supper (I ate with Hannah before she was off to school for the evening) and mowed the yard, I made him a chocolate pie.

I cannot make a chocolate pie without remembering the very first one I ever made. I was 12 and my brother, George, was 11. We were home alone one afternoon and got a terrible craving for chocolate pie. We got to talking and realized we had enough time to make one and if we ate it all, and if we cleaned up everything really well… While I made and baked the crust, George cooked the filling. We let it cool as long as we dared, split it in half, and thoroughly enjoyed each and every bite. I’m sure at least half of the fun was delight over the sneakiness of it all; we had pulled off the perfect crime!

My children all know the story of that chocolate pie (they are sick of my mentioning it every time I make another one). Hannah was not home yet when Isaac suggested it was time to break out the pie. We each had a piece, topped with loads of whipped cream. When we finished eating, our eyes met with a devilish twinkle; Hannah didn’t know about the pie! They do say that history repeats itself… But not this time, we couldn’t do it; poor Hannah had had a very long day, too, and would come home any minute, exhausted. She was very happy we saved some for her.