A peril of pumpkin pie

Mathematics and I live on different planets.

It’s not that I dislike numbers, or not, at least, the pretty ones.

When I was a child, every number had a different colour. I still see them that way. Two is baby blue, for instance. Seven is light tan. Five is black. Four is deep pink. One is white.

Numbers also had relationships and stories, and this got me through the boredom of Arithmetic. Four was the little sister. Six (warm brown) was the older brother. Six was protective of Four when Five got testy. Two looked after One. Three (green) just went with the flow. Eight (rust) was practically a grown-up and a bit distant. Nine (cobalt blue) was so old he was living away from home. I don’t know where the parents were, or if they existed.

There were ongoing stories in my head about their adventures and arguments. Everything always worked out in the end, of course. My numbers didn’t know about Hallmark, but they would have been right at home there.

Whatever part of my brain deals with numbers lives right next door to directions (I can get lost just turning around) and a frustrating inability to follow instructions properly.

Despite that, I used to say I could make a really good pumpkin pie using an old family recipe. I had done it a few times with great success.

One year I decided to challenge my husband, Tom, and my stepdaughter, Jessica, both brilliant cooks, to a pumpkin-pie-making contest. Stepson Ian would be the judge.

We made a grand event out of it. Each of us went shopping separately (without revealing where) for ingredients. We brought our goods home and hid them.

I had a good cookbook that I had carted around with me through all my adult life. I think it might have originated with my mother, or maybe her mother.

When the big day came, only one person at a time was allowed in the kitchen to make his or her pie. The others had to remain out of sight in another part of the house. Ian was the Pie Police who made sure there was no peeking whatsoever.

I opened my lovely old cookbook and set about to follow the instructions. I did everything it said, or so I thought. I could hardly wait to present my creation. I was going to show everyone how it was done.

Finally, after dinner in the dining room, we had the Big Reveal.

First, Ian brought out Tom’s pumpkin pie from his hiding spot in the kitchen. It looked perfect. It was a beautiful colour. Flawless. But of course, I thought, no one had tasted it yet. It could be a dud, right?

Next, Ian brought out Jessica’s pie from her hiding spot. It smelled so delicious I wanted to forget about the contest and just dig into it. Not only that, but the crust was delicately sculpted, a work of art in itself.

And then Ian brought out my pie. I knew it was a bit dark-looking when it came out of the oven, but I figured that was because of the extra dollop of molasses I used (an age-old secret, my cookbook said). However, now it seemed to have a white circle sitting on top of it. I began to sweat a little.

Ian took the first bite of Tom’s pie and gave it thoughtful consideration. He took a bite of Jessica’s and smiled. He seemed to savour both more than I would have liked.

Then he took a look at my pie.

“Hmm. Dark brown,” he said. “And what’s that white circle?”

“Oh, it’s just the delicately-separated egg white,” I said, tossing it off with forced nonchalance.

Ian took a bite.

“Not bad,” he said. “But it’s not very pumpkiny. It’s more like, I dunno, a sugar pie.”

He gave me an honourable mention, or maybe it was a participation ribbon. (Ian has always been kind and diplomatic.) Tom and Jessica tied for first place.

Contest over, we decided to investigate the funny appearance of my pie. Jessica said she liked the taste, but it was - ah - unusual.

Patient cooking mentor that she was (and still is), she ran through the ingredients with me.

“Did you use sugar?" Check.

"Cinnamon?" Check.

"Salt?" Check.

"Ginger?" Check.

"Cloves?" Check.

And then, just being silly, she asked: "Pumpkin?"

I could hear the distant thunder in my head, a big rock rolling down from a mountain. My face was getting hot. I was sure it was red. And then, in the back recess of my mind I could see it: The can of pureed pumpkin, sitting behind the microwave, hidden so no one would know which brand I was using. And I knew in that deep pit of dread in my gut: it was still there.

My silence and the look on my face told Jessica and Ian and Tom what had happened. They laughed so hard they cried. I tiptoed into the kitchen, found the can of pureed pumpkin, and sheepishly brought it out to the dining room.

Our dear Tom is no longer with us, but Jessica and Ian and I giggle every time we remember my pumpkinless pie -- and how we all laughed until our sides hurt.