A gentle rain was falling when the first car pulled up to my driveway. The shower kept my golf clubs tucked in the garage, but it opened a window for piemaking, something my posse of retirees hadn’t undertaken in five months.
We don’t go out to breakfast, complain about politics, go shopping, or God and all the 12 Apostles forbid, go shopping with our wives. When it is too wet to grip a golf club, Dan, Jeff and I – three retired teachers — make apple pies.
Our little ministry, the PIE Network, is at least 10 years old. It has honored birthdays, engagements and baby announcements, and conversely eased the pain from losing a loved one, undergoing a knee replacement or enduring a streak of bad luck. I intended the PIE Network to be a channel for bad-humor clips, but shooting video while making pies seemed too cumbersome and perhaps self-aggrandizing. Regardless, leaving a pie at someone’s door boosts the spirits of friends, family and community.
The pie recipients are joyful, but nothing compares with the humorous topics addressed in my kitchen when the dough is rolled and the flour is flying.
We always find something to laugh about. Jeff once recalled the home visit he made to a student, whose mother was upstairs. The kid wanted to charge him $50 because “that’s what most men pay.’’ Dan remembered his bout with norovirus – “I was like a 747 dumping fuel over the ocean.’’
On this day, as the rain continued, the first order of business was to turn on music. Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong serenaded us through “It’s A Lovely Day Today’’ when my spotty musical knowledge was exposed.
“Which vocalist was in Batman?’’ I tossed out while fashioning a pie lid. “I know it wasn’t Ella. Oh yeah, Etta maybe?’’
“That would be Etta James,’’ informed my pal Dan, a retired instrumental music teacher with a deep background in performers and performances. “But she was never in Batman.’’
“We’ll her name started with an ‘E’,’’ I whimpered to Jeff.
“That would be Eartha Kitt,’’ Dan corrected.
He should have thrown a flag on the play and announced, “After further review, the name is Eartha Kitt. She played Catwoman in the third season of the TV series. Holleran is out of challenges.’’
We slipped into the speed round. The NFL reference led us to the Buffalo Bills’ sloppy performance that handed a divisional win to the Evil Empire, the New England Patriots. I shared the misfortune of carrying a drive close to 200 yards, then watching my golf ball glance off a yardage pole and into the trees. Dan compared his cancer checkup against the progress of Jeff’s adult daughter.
My editor of 41 years walked in from the garage so I asked how her morning went. She responded: “I was playing with an 80-something man.’’
Given that we are recovering teen-age boys at heart, I quickly provided context – “She was partnering with him at YMCA open pickleball.’’
As I was trying to uncoil dough from my rolling pin into a pie plate, Dan shifted the dish. I botched the transfer and sliced a hole in the dough, then tried to reverse my course. The dough fell apart.
“Your pullout method failed miserably,’’ Dan chuckled. “It’s the pie version of coitus interruptus.’’
That led us to our upcoming trip to visit Shelley in New Hampshire. When our friend got tipsy at Claire’s wedding, he mistook Shelley for a newsroom colleague he had dated 35 years ago. Shelley set him straight, saying that they never dated. Eventually she explained how her real husband had passed, and that was why she was alone at the wedding. The reporter, still thinking of the wrong woman, was now totally confused. In his mind, the other woman had married his old friend, then they divorced. But now he was dead? The reporter was just hearing about it. Horrors. Sigh, have another drink.
Still weary from my 5:30 a.m. morning basketball game, there were miles to go before I napped. Clean the kitchen floor and counters. Wash dishes. Wrap the pies in aluminum foil. Deliver some pies.
Outside, the rain intensified. No golf today.
None of it mattered. Nothing seemed as entertaining as trading lines with the pie posse.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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