Slice of life ... or just pie

Besides, hiding out by myself measuring pumpkin filling and sprinkling flour would keep me safe from the inevitable family probes into why I wasn't yet popping out grandchildren and why I didn't visit more. Socializing would only make me ask for the three millionth time why I didn't take up friends' offers to crash their family feasts. There would be assessments over if I was eating enough or if my cheeks looked more round. There would be laundry lists of everybody's health problems, real and imaginary, and quibbles over silly topics like politics. Little did I know the only thing silly would be my feeble attempts for a peaceful holiday.

Halfway through rolling out the dough which refused to do much more than crumble, my mother walked into her kitchen, peered down at my sad attempt and announced, "Your brother is so good at pie crust. Maybe I should have asked him to do it."

As long-dormant sibling rivalry bubbled up at the jab, I bit my tongue from sarcastically retorting that I would have been much happier supplying the salad or bread. After all, I didn't volunteer for dessert duty. Then, I waited until the woman sauntered out of the room to do what any reasonable yet fiery tempered child would: chuck the lump of dough in the bulging trash can and pull out the box of pre-made crusts I knew she kept in the refrigerator for last-minute needs.

I happily mixed the pumpkin filling and congratulated myself on my deviousness when my turkey-happy father then made an appearance. Wandering toward the oven with hopes of slyly picking at the crunchy ends of the bird, he looked at me and looked at the incriminating pie box sitting on the top of the garbage bag. I was had, I just knew it. Pie crusts would forever be added to the seemingly never-ending list of "things my brother does better." There was no justice, I fumed. In fact, there was no thanks to be given. There was just reason to bury my ire with an early glass of wine and to "accidentally" kick the golden pie-making boy under the table numerous times.

As my dad caught my eye, turkey chunk in his own guilty hand, he did the only thing possible. He pushed the box to the bottom of the heap, covered it with a wad of napkins, and smiled. My crust secret was safe as was his covert taste-test of the bird.

Later that night, after the mashed potato pile was diminished, the tryptophan settled in and the family was too tired to bicker anymore, the pumpkin pies made their debut. The filling shimmered a beautiful orange hue. The crust flaked perfectly under the weight of a fork. My mother pronounced it nearly as good as my brother's legendary pie and not too shabby for my first attempt at dough.

Across the table, I met my dad's gaze and smiled while digging into a slice of pie sweetened with the idea that family sticks together when it counts even if it is as simple as a culinary conspiracy. Before and after desert, I rolled my eyes at his tried and true Republican beliefs and he'd say living in the Bay Area had made my heart bleed a little more. But, in that moment we were partners in crime. And, I found a reason to finally give thanks.

Michelle Durand's column "Off the Beat" runs every Monday and Thursday. She can be reached by e-mail: michelle@smdailyjournal.com or by phone: (650) 344-5200 ext. 104. What do you think of this column? Send a letter to the editor: letters@smdailyjournal.com.