Although it happened years ago, I will never forget that day. I guess time is irrelevant when it comes to thievery, spiritual corruption, and a church social that end in fisticuffs. Normally I wouldn’t speak of such things, but I’d rather you hear the truth from me instead of hearing lies by the bushel from Nelly Dalton. Yes, that Nelly Dalton. I’ll tell you this, if Satan ever wanted to marry, there wouldn’t be a doubt Nelly Dalton would be high on his courtin’ list.
I’m sorry, how rude of me, let me introduce myself before I continue. My name is Mrs. Emma Gladstone. I prefer the name Sister Gladstone when discussing church business, and shortly I will get to that business.
I’m a southern lady, born and raised in a small Florida town called Forbye. It’s just ten miles south of the Georgia line. You see, long about the early eighteen hundreds Scottish settlers cleared out a patch of land and so forth to create a town. Forbye came to mind because forbye is a Scottish word meaning near or besides. Since the town was near Georgia, hence the name, Forbye. Those imaginative Scots. Anyway, I hate to rattle on, but a little background was in order to stifle your curiosity when I refer to the township of Forbye or the First Baptist Church of Forbye. I’m a detailed woman as you’re about to find out, and I wouldn’t want you ponder over the simple and trivial name of Forbye.
Somehow, I’ve managed to stay married to the same man for years. Earl, my husband, will make appearances in my story, and you too will question why I’m still married to the rascal. For instance, there’s not a sailor alive who knows more curse words or sips more whisky than my Earl. And Earl was in the army, go figure. Earl, of course, blames it all on the Korean War. We can’t even go into Wal-Mart without Earl looking over his shoulder for the Koreans. Lord help us if there’s ever a short brown skinned man standing in the frozen food section. Anyway,
What’s that, gossip you say? There’s no gossip here, what I’m about to tell you is the truth.
Anyone who lived in Forbye knew the summer social was the event of the year. Not only to church members, but regular town folk as well, you know the unwashed, also came out to feast on God’s buffet. Calvin Tibbs, a reporter from the Forbye Telegraph, always covered the occasion in his “Talk of the Town” column. If a lady wanted to be known for her culinary skills, all it would take is a mere mention from Mr. Tibbs, and she and her recipe went down in the annals of Forbye folklore.
Here is an example of Mr. Tibbs’ work.
“In my life, I’ve had more macaroni and cheese than I care to remember. However, Doris Humfinger brought such excitement to this dish it gave new definition to pasta and pressed curds. My taste buds wrestled each other just to be the first to savor Mrs. Humfinger’s classic creation. To say this is just macaroni and cheese is like saying the Mona Lisa is just a painting. This dish should be served at the Waldorf, it’s that good!”
After that, Doris Humfinger became the macaroni and cheese queen. No other clear thinking woman would ever darken the social hall door with that dish.
Mr. Tibbs dubbed several queens over the years. Martha Bennett’s pecan fried chicken, Ida May Long’s tuna soufflé, and Grace Mobley’s Hungarian succotash, just to name a few. I don’t know what was more enjoyable, the social itself or reading the reviews on Monday. In any event, to get noticed you had to make it through Mr. Tibbs’ stomach, and that is what I set out to do.
About six months before the summer church social, I started dickering around with different recipes, but nothing worked. I just couldn’t come up with something new. The queens of Mr. Tibbs already had a lock on so many wonderful dishes. Meat products were basically pointless; salads never set Mr. Tibbs’ taste buds on fire, and casseroles were for old ladies. I needed something to put me in the circle of famous dishes. Keep in mind, I was a young gal at the time, and with one great dish, my status in Forbye would be solidified. However, my mind went blank. I had nothing or no idea what on earth I could bake.
One day I looked to heaven. “Lord, what can I bake?” I asked.
Without hesitation I heard, “Boysenberries.” That’s right, boysenberries echoed around my kitchen table. The voice was so loud, so clear, and so recognizable. It was Earl’s, talking to me as he came in from the garden.
“I said the boysenberries will be blooming soon, I bet we’ll have a mess of them by June,” Earl said.
“Boysenberry pie, that’s it Earl!” I screamed. Earl looked at me funny and then shuffled off to find a ballgame on the radio.
Although fresh boysenberries were out of season, I spent all spring perfecting my piecrust. Don’t tell anyone, but I used canned blueberries through the trial phase. The crust mattered most during the early stages. I spent weeks adjusting the lard to butter ratio. And not just any lard, I’m talking high dollar leaf lard, which comes from the fat around a pig’s kidneys. Also, of course, I used Goldfields baking butter. Is there any other? Oleo? Please dear, I’m Emma Gladstone. So anyway, by the time I had the crust just right, the first boysenberries were falling off the vine.
Earl was right, we had a mess of them, but each one was precious, so none could be wasted. One day I sent Earl out to pick a bagful. I was standing over the kitchen sink singing, “Just a Little Closer Walk with Thee,” when I glanced out the window and happened to see Earl pop a boysenberry in his mouth. That rascal, now I am about to get a little closer walk with Earl, I thought. I grabbed the slingshot we kept by the back door for shooting tomcats. I loaded up my apron with cherry tomatoes and set my sights on Earl’s backside. As soon as he raised his hand to his mouth again, I let the tomato fly. Smack! Right in the seat of his britches. Earl leapt forward and then went into a defensive crouch.
“Earl Bartholomew Gladstone, you eat another one of the Lord’s berries, and you’ll wish you were back in some Korean foxhole,” I yelled as I lined up another tomato, but before I let it fly, Earl dropped the berry into the bag.
With a month to go before the summer social, it was time to get down to the serious business of sorting berries. I separated each by ripeness, aroma, and color. Anything not up to snuff was tossed. Earl stood by like an old hound dog waiting for discarded scraps. Nothing but the best made the grade and was deemed fit for my prize winning pie.
The pie filling itself became a thorny process. If this pie was to stand out, it couldn’t be just sugar, cornstarch, and boysenberries. That would never make Mr. Tibbs’ Talk of the Town column. No sir, my pie filling needed to exhibit a combination of style, comfort, and imagination. I wanted Mr. Tibbs’ taste buds to wrestle each other over my pie. I wanted to be the talk of the town, I wanted to be the Queen of Boysenberry Pie.
I explored several options in order to find the perfect ingredients to complement the boysenberries. I tried just a hit of vanilla, maybe a pinch of nutmeg, and so forth. The pie was good mind you, but nothing to cause a body’s taste buds to wrestle. Then I added a little coconut, no good, in fact, it was awful. I even went as far as spritzing the berries with a little of Earl’s sipping rum, just for flavor of course. Earl loved it, but it tasted horrible mixed with boysenberries.
I was beside myself. The social was only two weeks away, and I had accomplished nothing more than a perfect crust.
My pride wouldn’t allow me to sulk, but it did take a toll on my spirit. My desire to cook had left me, causing poor Earl to get by on cold cuts and peanut butter. Since the war, all Earl wanted was home cooked food and a soft bed. Because of that elusive pie, Earl now didn’t have neither.
I guess he got tired of cold cuts because Earl finally went off on me. I remember it so clearly; I was sitting in my chair doing my crosswords when Earl stomped in.
“Emma, quit your moping and make me something to eat,” Earl barked.
His tone caught me off guard, but I liked it. He was a helpless caveman in the wilderness seeking some sense of civilization, bless his heart. Little did I know the Lord was about to use Earl as his mouthpiece once again. I put down the crossword puzzle and made my way to the kitchen. Earl followed close behind me.
“What would you like, Earlee,” I said. Earlee was my pet name for him.
“How bout some warm gingersnaps,” Earl suggested.
“Of course, dear,” I went to the cupboard and then stopped. “Eureka! Earl you glorious caveman—ginger—ginger—ginger—oh dear Lord—ginger!”
“What the…”
“Never mind the gingersnaps, Earl. Mama’s gonna make you the best boysenberry pie ever.”
Earl said something like; “Here we go again,” before shuffling out to find a ballgame.
Now I must have passed my hand over the ginger box a thousand times without thinking what delight it would bring to a boysenberry pie. To my knowledge no southern lady had ever used the two together. I know what you’re thinking, two opposite flavors competing in the same dish? Absurd! Oh, ye of little faith. This was the combination of style, comfort, and imagination I’d been seeking. I could taste my prize winning pie before I made it.
Do I really have to tell you how it tasted? Let’s just say, my coronation waited for Mr. Tibbs.
I carefully transferred all my chicken-scratched notes into one legible recipe. Before going off to bed, I baked the pie again just to make sure, and to tell you the truth the second one was better than the first. I remember lying in bed saying my prayers. “Dear Lord, if you could find some way for me to make the Talk of the Town column I’d rightly be grateful.” Of course, I said that after I prayed for Earl’s soul, the orphans, and the infirmed. I drifted off, and finally for the first time in three weeks, I slept peacefully.
The Tuesday before the social was where this story turned. Nelly Dalton, remember her? Well, she stopped by for her monthly gossip and lies session. I never much cared for Nelly, and to be honest, she never much cared for me. Thinking back, we faked it on account of the Lord and all. Her visits were more like holy inspections. She’d pop in hoping to catch me with a pinch of snuff or maybe to find Earl all liquored-up. She always nosed around inconspicuously, looking for anything that might conjure up a raised eyebrow before prayer meeting.
We kept the conversation light. I didn’t speak of my boysenberry pie. The last person I wanted to know about ginger was Nelly Dalton. In fact, we did not discuss the social at all. She was either holding her cards, like I was, or she was planning a boring casserole. I’m sure somewhere in her imagination, Nelly was a good cook, bless her heart.
Nelly was wrapping up her visit doing her usual stuff. “Oh Emma, by the way, could I have some cold water before I go?” she asked all syrupy.
This was her technique to peek into my icebox looking for Earl’s beer.
“Why, sure, Nelly.” I swung open the fridge door all the way back to the hinges because I never allowed Earl to put beer in the fridge.
“There you go, Nelly,” I said as I poured a glass while letting the fridge door linger open for a full gaze.
Suddenly, I heard, “Emma, come here!”
It was Earl’s voice coming from down the hall. About twenty minutes earlier, I had witnessed Earl walk through the house with a newspaper under his arm. By his tone and schedule, I knew what he wanted.
“Emma, I said come in here!” louder Earl said.
I briefly excused myself while Nelly drank her water. How do I put this delicately? Let’s just say Earl had a paper shortage and was disinclined to retrieve a new roll on his own. I went down the hall.
“Here, Earl, and don’t flush until Nelly leaves, I’ll let you know” I said as I handed the necessities through a cracked door.
As I came back around the corner I noticed Nelly jamming a pen and note pad back into her handbag. Making a list of dirty dishes, I thought. I’m quite sure she found something awry in my kitchen. Anyway, all loaded up with prayer meeting gossip, Nelly said a quick goodbye.
I stood there for a good ten minutes wondering what Nelly was up to. Earl finally broke my concentration. “Emma?” Earl quietly shouted.
Oh dear Lord, I had forgotten about Earl waiting to flush.
What a glorious morning I woke up to on the day of the social. I checked the pie first; it looked absolutely perfect sitting next to my Holy Bible. Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted a better picture and certainly not a better tasting one. I told Earl it was all because of him and his craving for gingersnaps. He said nothing, but I could tell he was proud.
I got dressed: new nylons, floral blue dress, matching shoes, pearl necklace, pillbox hat, white gloves, and white handbag. Earl threw on a dress shirt and polished hard shoes and away we went. We only lived a few blocks from the church, so I left the pie at home until after services.
We had a normal attendance for Sunday school, but the preaching service was filled to the rafters. The regular townsfolk came out just to have a clear conscience before partaking in God’s food. We must have run two hundred in meeting service. This was a particularly hot July morning. Brother Johnson from Forbye Funeral Parlor stood in the foyer handing out fans. They were lovely fans, indeed, with a beautiful print of Jesus herding a flock of sheep.
Preacher Babcock delivered a wonderful sermon on sins of the flesh. He told us how prurient thoughts lead to deviant behavior. He touched on all topics of lust and perversions; mixed swimming, drive in movies, and Elvis Presley. Then the preacher railed against dancing as he strutted around the podium like a banny rooster, he gyrated and swung his hips, as if to mock Elvis. Half the congregation gasped, the other half snickered as the preacher jiggled from head to toe. Suddenly, he stopped. It was so quiet. He gazed into the congregation…he waited … waited some more and then swung his fist high in the air, and then brought it down on the pulpit, thwack! … That woke Earl up. The preacher shouted, “Lucifer wants you to dance because he knows it’s a vertical movement looking for a horizontal opportunity.” I glanced over at Nelly Dalton; she was going to town with a fan. You can fan all you want to, Nelly, but sin sticks, I thought. It’s no secret that Nelly and her husband liked to sneak down to the Elks club for some rug cutting, and they’ve been known to switch dance partners.
I reckon Preacher Babcock figured on getting the most out of a packed house because he went a full thirty minutes beyond a normal Sunday meeting. Eventually, Brother Campbell said the last amen, and the holy morning of obligation was over.
On the way out, I couldn’t help but notice a flock of ladies surrounding Calvin Tibbs. Talk about a hideous outpouring of vulgarity, well, I never. You should have heard the flirtatious innuendos sprouting about. “Oh, why Mr. Tibbs, you might have to undo your trousers after filling up on my brown sugar glazed meatloaf,” Linda Humphrey said. She giggled and then sort of brushed by Mr. Tibbs while ever so slightly touching his elbow. While I’m watching this, another woman, June Miller, got extremely close to Mr. Tibbs and whispered something into his ear. Keep in mind all this went on while standing just outside the church; technically still in God’s house! Not more than five minutes earlier, Preacher Babcock spoke for the umpteenth time about sins of the flesh, going to hell, and prurient thoughts. Nevertheless, these hens had visions of Mr. Tibbs undoing his trousers and whispering—who knows what—kind of favors in his ear. Honestly, I’d witnessed enough. I turned curtly on my heels as a statement of disapproval and removed myself before lightning struck. Besides I had other pressing needs.
I grabbed Earl before he lit another cigarette, and we quickly headed home. The smell of boysenberries and a wisp of ginger wafted through the house as I rushed in, grabbed the pie, retrieved a gallon of sweet tea from the fridge, and said a quick prayer…. what? I figured it couldn’t hurt. Earl had left the car running, and it was back to the church we went.
We pulled into a packed parking lot, and suddenly the magnitude of the event gripped me. I felt dampness filter through my gloves. I had rehearsed this moment over and over in my mind, but the gravity of it became all too real. My nylons bunched up: my dream was about to come true. Boysenberry, ginger, the talk of the town— it was all about to happen.
We parked in the back, two slots over from the cemetery, maybe it was a sign of things to come, because guess who pulled up next to me. That’s right, Nelly Dalton. And before I knew it… it happened.
Some things in life never escape ones memory. A thousands Sunday’s can come and pass, brain cells can fade away, and dementia can riddle this old lady’s mind, but never, never, will I forget what happened.
As I stated, Nelly pulled up, with her litter of brats. There must have been five or six young’uns all jammed into Nelly’s Buick. One little typhoid-carrying miscreant jumped out of the car and started roughhousing with another dirty-faced lad. Suddenly, the entire Dalton clan surrounded me. I tried to balance the boysenberry pie with my Holy Bible, white handbag, and gallon of sweet tea. Earl, forget it, he was still behind the wheel of our 51’ Dodge swigging the last drop out of his Sunday flask. One boy ran into my right arm. I tried to steady myself when another kid ran into me going the other way. I violently swung around, my movements inducing a mammoth twirl. I’m no scientist, but the velocity caused such centrifugal force it propelled my pie out of my hands and into a flying saucer. When I finally stopped spinning, I stood there motionless. The vision seemed to last forever; the pie, suspended in air, rotating, rotating, rotating with gravity nowhere in sight. The saucer sailed past the cemetery gate while appearing to leak purple oil. I watched in disbelief as my pie crashed into the tombstone of old Doc Potter.
Just like that, the pie, the ginger, the talk of the town, they were gone. Although shook-up, I managed to hear a giggle or was it a snicker coming from Nelly’s direction. Too crestfallen to chastise her boys that caused the ruckus and too humiliated, at the moment, to look at Nelly, I slumped forward to catch my breath. I hung my head, my white gloves now stained purple; one little boysenberry clung onto the gallon of tea before mercifully dropping to the ground.
I don’t know how long it took to gather myself. I don’t even remember walking into the social hall. At some point, the fuzzy haze left me and I found myself sitting on a metal chair with arms folded. Anger, that’s right, anger set in.
One by one the ladies came in. Martha Bennett with her fried chicken, Doris Humfinger with her macaroni and cheese, Ida May Long with her tuna soufflé, Grace Mobley with her Hungarian succotash, and on and on the food parade went. Calvin Tibbs sat off to the side viewing this sickening procession like a peacock gathering his harem.
I heard somebody say, “Look at that pie.” My eyes cut to the doorway and guess who came sashaying in with a big grin and an arm full of boysenberry pie? You guessed it, Nelly Dalton! Not only did she methodically coordinate a disturbance that brought destruction to my pie, but she had also stolen my recipe! I knew something was up with that woman when she hurried out of my kitchen a few days before. Now the proof was in the boysenberries. The nerve, the gall, and the audacity of it all.
I sat there and stewed. Maybe she didn’t steal the recipe itself, maybe just the idea. After all, there are several boysenberry pie recipes; surely she wouldn’t use my unique creation with—ginger—would she? I thought.
While all the other sisters placed their dishes on long tables, Nelly went about the room putting the pie under all the men’s noses. You should have heard her talking openly about her recipe. What an embarrassing spectacle.
She went right up to Mr. Tibbs and said, “Mr. Tibbs. You must try my boysenberry pie, it’s made with ginger.”
Okay that’s it! She used ginger!
All the ladies gasped, and then “Ginger” was whispered throughout the dinning hall.
What would you do? You didn’t have to be Agatha Christie to solve this caper.
Well, I had enough! Nelly had just lit the fuse to the powder keg I’d been sitting on. I bolted from my chair and dashed toward the thief who was spinning a tale of lies.
“Nelly Dalton, who do you think you are?” I said.
“Why, Emma, what on earth do you mean?”
“Ginger, really now! You expect me to believe you came up with ginger all on your own. You stole my recipe!” I accused.
The social fell silent. We stood with only the boysenberry pie between us. Preacher Babcock tried to step in. “Now ladies…”
“Hold on, Preacher. You spoke all morning about sin, but I guess it didn’t work! Now it’s my turn,” I said. “Not only did this woman steal my pie, her children attacked me in the parking lot.”
“Baseless allegations,” Nelly puffed back.
“I’m not in the habit of saying things that aren’t true,” I replied.
All parties concerned have debated what happened next with vigorous elaboration. But this is what happened.
Nelly tried to nudge me out of the way, but I stood my ground waiting for a confession. You know being Sunday and all, I figured confession would be good for her soul.
However, she nudged a little harder, then I nudged back. The Preacher, still observing the dispute, touched both of our shoulders to calm the rising tempers in the room. Nelly resisted and led with a finger poke to my pillbox hat. I whipped my arm up to stop her and by chance, my thumb, caught the rim of her pie plate, and for the second time that day, a boysenberry pie was airborne. I’m not sure who threw the first punch, but Nelly and I ended up on the floor.
Bloomers flew and girdles ripped. Doris Humfinger, who always found Nelly to be quite haughty, rushed to my aid. She yanked off Nelly’s wig and threw it into Grace Mobley’s Hungarian succotash. A melee ensued in the highest order. Earl flashed back to the Korean War and still had an appetite for killing. He immediately went into combat mode and started rounding up all the short brown skinned men for torture. Nothing was sacred. Hymnals were used as missiles, bibles were used as shields, and the whole church erupted into a Holy War. The preacher shouted, “Order,” which was ignored as fisticuffs continued at every corner.
I was sitting on top of Nelly pulling at her hind legs when I glanced over at Earl. He had Mr. Tibbs belly down and hogtied with his necktie. Food covered the floor, walls, ceiling, and most of the two hundred guests. Forbye hadn’t seen this much action since General Alfred Colquitt beat back the Union Army during the Civil War.
Finally, Luther Hunt fetched a shotgun from his pick-up truck and fired off a round into the ceiling. Everyone stopped. I let go of Nelly’s leg, stood up and straightened my dress. The preacher asked us all to leave and not speak to each other for fear of another outbreak. Nelly slid out the backdoor, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Earl untied Mr. Tibbs along with four other men. I tried to stay behind to cleanup, but the preacher said, “Go, Emma, just go.”
Before I went out the door I glanced back to see Mr. Tibbs walk over to a heap of boysenberry goo. He bent down and plucked his finger into the center. He pulled up a glob to his tongue, rolled the substance around in his mouth, and then shrugged his shoulders before walking out the side door.
On the way to the car I groused at Earl, “You just had to have gingersnaps didn’t you!”
The next morning Earl came running in with the paper. “Look, Emma,” he said.
Lo and behold, there in black and white was a front-page photo of me smearing boysenberry pie on the face of Nelly Dalton.
The headline read, “Emma Gladstone is the talk of the town.”
So the Lord does answer prayers.
