Miss American Pie

A ribbon of cherry, lime, and sugar laced the air, weaving together with the scent of three golden and flaky pie crusts resting on the kitchen island. Holly spun from the stove, her apron crusted with layers of flour and sugar. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, the sticky Alabama humidity had crept into the small bungalow she called home and clung to the warm air generated by the oven, weighing on her lungs with every breath. She drew her forearm across her forehead, refusing to concede to the perspiration cloying to escape her skin.

Tomorrow was Independence Day, and she was determined for her pie to win Livingston’s 150th Fourth of July contest. Frankly, she didn’t care what she had to do, as long as the pastry coming from her kitchen reached the heart of Deputy Jesse Cross. She wasn’t a simple woman; she noticed things. And she couldn’t help but notice that Jesse took the last three winners out on a date over the past three years. This year, that was going to be her. Her pie was going to be so delicious it would forever alter his tastebuds, leaving him only wanting her. Rather, her pie.

A sharp ‘ding’ pulled her mind back to the present, announcing that the oven had reached optimal temperature for the pie’s second bake with the cherry-lime filling.

Pulling the bubbling cherry lime filling from the stovetop, she dipped in her measuring cup, precisely pouring three cups of the mixture into each waiting crust. She moved with precision, something she picked up while in the pageant circuit. She’d been subjected to the pageants since she was knee-high and went so far as to be Miss Alabama. Alabama was widely regarded as the captain of Miss Americas, a title that had ultimately eluded Holly. Jesse, however, would not elude her. He would be the proverbial cherry on top of her crowning glory: becoming a wife and mother.

She turned to the lattice she had intricately woven to resemble the American flag, sliding it over the first pie. She only needed to submit two pies to the contest, but Holly had learned long ago to never leave anything to chance. She blew a ringlet of her platinum-blonde hair out of her face, concentrating on aligning the crust just so. Then, she moved to the next two with equal caution. Crimping the edges on each in a classic scalloped pattern, she admired her handiwork. She dusted her hands on her frilly gingham apron, made just for this occasion, before snapping a pic on her cellphone to post in her inevitable winner reel on her social platforms.

Washing her hands twice for precaution, she slid the carefully crafted pies into the oven. She wasn’t done though, certainly not. This was not the time to celebrate. That time would come, but now she needed to make Jesse’s favorite accoutrement: homemade vanilla ice cream. If someone had told her a year ago that she would be home making pies and ice cream, she would have laughed in their face. She didn’t even eat dairy, or gluten for that matter. Not because of any sensitivity, but she couldn’t stomach the empty calories. She’d sworn off sweets when she was just ten years old, her pageant talent platform having been the impact of sugar on children. Still, despite her lack of experience with these flavors in the past, she had decided after last Independence Day that this would be her year. Her year to win. Her year to have her picture in the paper, proudly showing her pie, Jesse standing beside her with his thumb up. Her year to get that date.

She flattened a vanilla bean on her cutting board, holding the curved tip down to prevent it from bowing. Then she split it with her sharp paring knife. With the wet paste inside exposed, a new ribbon of smell and flavor worked through the kitchen, vanilla caviar ready to be scooped and scraped into the milk and cream base. Holly grinned. Her perfect plan was falling into place, and nothing would prevent her from winning what she had set her mind to.

The next morning, Holly stepped into the competition tent, blonde tresses piled high and secured with a red, white, and blue sparkly claw clip. Her homemade blue gingham apron perfectly contrasted with her white capris and red halter top. She had opted to forego her typical heels and wore simple white Keds, having noted sneakers were the standard attire in the competition. Thanks to her connections with the planning committee, of which she planned to chair next year, she had secured the table second closest to the stage where the judges sat. This made her the second-to-last to go. A sweet spot in a competition since the first, middle, and last competitors often blend together judges’ minds.

Silome, the gorgeous, tan yoga instructor who also worked at the bookstore and the Cafe, and occasionally dog-sat was already setting up her station, right next to Holly’s.

Plastering on her pageant smile she greeted her in her sickly sweet voice, “Mornin’ Silome. My, what a gorgeous spread you have there. What did you bring this year?”

Last year Silome had won the contest and the date with Jesse. They never broke up per se, but they were never official either. Just dated here and there all year and all over town, where Holly had to see and hear about it constantly.

“I made Jesse’s favorite again, cherry pie!”

“Oh you don’t say, I hadn’t the slightest that was his favorite,” Holly replied in her thickest southern drawl.

She unrolled the matching blue gingham table runner and doilies she had made to set her pies on. She waited to retrieve anything from her cooler, wanting to hold out until the last minute so no one could see the intricate design she had worked so hard to accomplish. Silome looked over, genuinely appreciating her set up.

Jeff, the town’s beloved retired Fish and Game Warden and one of the three judges, turned on the microphone. “Thank you everyone, for joining us today. Each year, we look forward to tasting your best summer desserts. We sincerely appreciate the time and dedication you put into cultivating your recipes and baking these samples for us. I’ve always found that baking is the epitome of the American spirit, honing a craft to better the lives of those around you. The judges and I will be coming around now to view your pies first, scoring your visual presentation. Then we will call each contestant up to the stage to present us with a slice. You may add ice cream, cream, or any other topper you also made to accompany your dish. Thank you.”

Nervous energy rippled through Holly’s body, she pulled her two pies out, turning them so the star-spangled section of the American flag sat at a crisp ninety-degree angle. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her apron. Pulling a compact mirror out of her bag, she checked the ruby-red lipstick she’d chosen with subtle blue undertones to best match her skin, and then rolled her tongue over her teeth.

By the time she tucked it away, the judges had reached Silome’s table.

“Today I made two classic cherry pies,” Silome announced. “I used Bing Cherries from Green’s Market and made homemade vanilla custard to top it with. For my top crust, I opted for a fully covered pie with the exception of the star I cut out of the center.”

“Thank you, Silome,” Jeff said.

Jesse and the Mayor Art nodded at her as they moved on to Holly’s table.

“Well mornin’ y’all!” Holly gave her best pageant smile, waving her hand over her two pies in a soft flourish. “For the judges’ pleasure today, I made a cherry-lime pie to really capture that summer essence. I ordered special Monmorency cherries from Michigan, the best for pies, and balanced the acidity of the lime and cherries with my homemade vanilla sugar. I made an all-butter crust and wove it into a design that truly showcases my patriotism.” Battering her eyelashes, she looked over to Jesse. “I’m just so grateful to the hard-working men and women who keep our country safe and free. I hope my pie makes you feel that with each bite today.”

Jeff, Jesse, and Art leaned over, inspecting the two pies. Notably impressed, they thanked her, moving to the next table. Shoot, she’d forgotten to even mention the vanilla ice cream. Still, she took a steadying breath. She really should have practiced her presentation speech more.

The judges approached the platform, each taking a seat at the table as Holly worked to prepare her three slices. She cut an exact one-eighth slice for each, the filling still firm enough not to pool since she waited to pull it out of her cooler until the last minute. Then, as Silome walked up to the stage, Holly scooped three perfect globes of the vanilla ice cream, casting it to the side of the slice. Finally, she wiped the plate for any debris or smudges just in time for her name to be called.

She walked to the platform, balancing the three plates before setting each one in front of a corresponding judge. She leaned over deeply when she set down Jesse’s to better leverage her cleavage. Then she chirped “Enjoy y’all” as she flounced gracefully back off the stage.

Returning to her table, time slowed down as she watched Jesse slice into the pie. She watched him draw the fork to his mouth. Did she detect a slight smile? He went for another bite, then a third with the ice cream. Anxiety rose inside her like a storm thermometer in a hurricane. Bile rested in her throat as she held her steadfast pageant smile, beaming at the judges. They whispered amongst themselves as Jesse finished every last bite. The finale contestant then approached with an apple pie, allowing Holly to relax for just a brief moment.

After a brief break to deliberate, the judges returned to the front platform. Holly and her fellow contestants walked to the side of the stage, waiting to hear the results.

“This year's competition was better than ever. Thank you again to everyone for participating. In third place, we’d like to award Jerry with her Avocado Chocolate Mousse Pie. Jerry, we applaud your creativity.”

The woman, in her sixties and dressed like she was still living in them, pumped her fist in the air, climbing onto the stage to claim her ribbon before exiting the other side.

“Now, this was tough. This year we had so many great desserts, and second place is going to someone who has consistently given us some great pies. Silome, come on up.”

Butterflies swarmed in Holly’s stomach. “Congratulations,” she and the other ladies whispered as Silome passed. This was it. This was her moment, she just knew it. She watched as Silome exited, waving to the crowd.

Call me. Call me. Call me, she chanted in her mind.

“This year’s first place goes to a newcomer who, frankly, we had no idea knew her way around a kitchen. Her pie was excellent and stood out in taste, quality, and craftsmanship. For first place, we wish to award… Holly Ann Henderson!”

Holly hopped up the steps, her hand coming to her chest in a gasp of “What, me?” A gesture that she knew always charmed an audience. Taking the large, blue first-place ribbon, she planted herself right beside Jesse. The newspaper photographer urged them to scoot in closer, and Holly pressed herself against Jesse for the photo, as he gave his signature thumbs up pose. Pulling back, the men went to shake her hand, but Holly went in for hugs instead.

“Sorry y’all, I’m a hugger.” Lingering in the embrace with Jesse significantly longer than the others, she leaned back, smiling up at him. “You’ll have to come by my place for a private slice of the winning recipe.” She winked, sliding a pink piece of paper into his hand, carefully inscribed with her number and drenched in her signature vanilla-jasmine perfume.

She hadn’t won the real prize yet, but as the heavy, sweet scent drifted up between them, she knew would.