I continued taking my daily hikes with Team Terrier in the forest behind my house. Every afternoon I put on my rain boots, raincoat, fleece tights, hat and gloves, and set forth into the dark woods. Of the forty miles of trails, I had three different regular loops I would take. None was more scenic than another—they all looked the same—steep, tree-lined trails surrounded by overgrown ferns and fallen moss-covered logs—so my trail choice depended only on how long I felt like walking. My energy was gradually returning, so I increased the length and intensity of my hikes as the days went by.
It was during one of my daily walks that I was trudging up the mountain, dogs in tow, fretting over what the hell I was doing with my life—when I heard Marcus’s voice. I knew it was his voice, because it was distinct and clear, complete with his British accent, and something he definitely would have said.
“Bloody hell, why do you think I left you this money?” he reproached from the “Other Side.” He immediately answered his own question. “So you could pursue your pie endeavors.”
I wasn’t scared to hear him speak. I had been wishing for it, waiting for it, every day since he died. I had read so many books about the afterlife, including Hello from Heaven and Ghosts Among Us, that I was annoyed Marcus hadn’t visited me. But he finally showed up—to give me a firm kick in the ass.
“Okay, my love, I will,” I whispered to the misty air. “Okay, okay. Thank you.” I stopped and leaned against a tree to see if he would say anything more. But except for some creaking branches, the woods were once again silent.
With renewed motivation, I spent the following weeks creating a pie website. On the site I included the TV show treatment (this was a welcome and cost-saving change from the days of photocopying), but also advertising for my pie-baking parties, my pie blog, and left some blank pages for anything else pie-related that might materialize.
The woman who designed my site for me was Tricia Martin, a graphic artist who had created a pie/literary contest called Pietopia, in which contestants wrote short essays about what their life right now would be if it were a pie. After passing the first round of judging, participants had to make the recipe and enter the actual pie in the contest. I didn’t enter, but I did become a judge for it. If I had entered, my pie would have been some kind of caramel apple with walnuts—the caramel representing the challenge of wading through the thick, viscous grieving process; the apples for simplicity as I had pared down my life to the most basic ingredients by living in a sparse studio and spending time with only the most nurturing of people; and walnuts for the hard and bitter parts I still endured. Besides, a little protein is always a good idea.
Tricia’s contest gave me another idea. The National Pie Championships were taking place in Orlando in April. If I went, I could meet potential sponsors for the pie show. I could volunteer to be a pie judge and scope out more story angles for us to shoot if the show sold. And I could get out from under Portland’s permanent rain cloud. I called the American Pie Council, explained my Malibu baking background and that I had a TV show in the works. I was immediately accepted as a judge. Because I mentioned I was using pie as a way to heal from the death of my husband, they asked if I would also give a speech at their Great American Pie Festival. I have no idea why I agreed, but I did.
I was on a roll. Just as Marcus had insisted, the pie endeavors were being pursued. And sometimes they were pursuing me. Rachel, a friend of Marcus’s and mine (whose dad was a pastor and resided over Marcus’s Portland funeral), was friends with a local newspaper reporter who was looking for human-interest stories. Rachel mentioned me to her. What was so interesting about an unemployed grieving widow with suicidal tendencies holed up in a tree house on the edge of town? Oh, right. Pie. I had taught Rachel how to make pie. She also knew about my L.A. trip in the RV and how I had given away pie on National Pie Day. Rachel’s friend—the reporter, Jen Anderson—loved the idea.
Jen was half-Japanese, short and buff, fast-talking and quick-laughing. She was a ball of energy in clogs and carried a big white leather designer handbag. We met for our interview—and of course, for pie—at Random Order Coffee House on Portland’s counter-culture strip, Alberta Street. (It was one of the places where I had—unsuccessfully—applied for a pie-baking job, the one with the kitchen the size of a broom closet.) The glass pie case was filled with so many choices that the dilemma delayed our ability to order, thus causing a line of impatient customers behind us to build up. We finally had to ask the cashier for her recommendations. “They’re all good,” she said. (Portland isn’t known for its stellar customer service.) Jen settled on a slice of Shaker lemon and I chose lemon meringue, not because I liked it—it’s too sour for my taste—but because I had dreamed about it the night before. Usually I dream about my dog Jack falling off cliffs or getting swept away in raging rivers. But sometimes, on occasion, pie makes an appearance in my slumbering subconscious.
We took our pie outside and sat at one of the sidewalk tables. Bundled up against the cool, damp air in our down vests, our cups of coffee steamed as we dug into our pie. I was used to being the journalist, the one who asked the questions and wrote the stories, not the one being written about.
“So what do you think of the pie?” Jen wanted to know.
She knew I was going to be a judge at the National Pie Championships. Her question made me realize I was going to have to get used to having a more finely tuned pie palate, but for now I just wanted to enjoy a piece without scrutinizing it. “It’s good,” I said. “Not great.”
“I’ve always wanted to open up a pie shop,” she continued. “I’d love to have a pie cart.”
“A pie cart is a great idea,” I replied. Jen could join the exploding trend of gourmet food on wheels, portable shops that popped up in clusters around Portland in abandoned parking lots, usually near bars or downtown offices. “You should just do it.”
“I’m too busy. I have two kids, a full-time job and I barely have enough time to exercise. And I don’t know how to make pie.”
I set my fork down and told her excitedly, “When you come over to my place for the photo shoot next week, I’ll teach you.”
And I did teach her. Her newspaper didn’t allow her to take freebies, so she couldn’t accept an official pie lesson, but that didn’t stop her from applying her journalism techniques. While her photographer snapped pictures of me making an apple pie in my Aspen Avenue studio, Jen stood by observing. She didn’t get a hands-on experience, but she got answers to her umpteen questions.
“You’re not measuring the water. How do you know how much to use?”
“I pour in a little at a time and keep adding more until all the dry bits are absorbed. You can’t always depend on an exact amount because there are so many variables. If you live in a dry climate, your dough might need extra water. Here in Portland, where it’s damp, the flour may already have excess moisture.”
“Don’t you refrigerate your dough? I read that you’re supposed to put it in the fridge for at least thirty minutes.”
“No. I don’t find it makes any difference. And I find it easier to roll my dough when it’s supple.”
“What’s that scraper thing you’re using?” She was referring to the flat metal rectangle I was sliding under my dough to lift it off the rolling surface.
“It’s called a bench scraper. I call it a pastry scraper. Some call it a ‘Chop n’ Scoop.’ It’s the world’s most useful pie making tool. I got this for three dollars at Target.”
“Do you ever use a food processor?”
“Never!”
As I worked my ingredients into a big ball, then into two disks and then began to roll, Jen watched my every move—from the size of my lumps of butter in my dough, the dusting of flour on my countertop, to the thickness of my apple slices—and filled page after page of her spiral notebook with pie-making instructions.
That night Jen sent me an email with a picture attached. “I love your approach to pie,” she wrote. “How you get people to stop
thinking and just do it. Watching you made me instantly want to go home and make a pie. So I did! If I ever get laid off, I might just open that pie cart.” I clicked on the photo. It was her first pie, strawberry-rhubarb with a lattice crust. It was perfect—a craggy, brown top crust outlined the shape of the fruit underneath, red berry juice pooled around the edges of the fluted crust. I was impressed. And proud. And I wanted a piece.
A few weeks later, when the article came out, I went down the hill from my house to the newspaper box in front of the cooperative grocery store to pick up a copy, which was free. In the box’s window the current issue was displayed and I was taken aback by the color photo that occupied the entire top half of the paper. It was a close up of my hands weaving a lattice crust. That was me—well, my hands and my pie—on the front page of a Portland newspaper.
I wanted to call Marcus and tell him the exciting news about the article. But of course I couldn’t. Every victory was hollow knowing that I couldn’t share it with him—victories like driving the RV for the first time, shooting a TV show with Janice, getting my pie-making hands on the front page of a newspaper. Weirdly, these victories seemed to be because of him. So every time I got good news, instead of calling him I ran into the bathroom, holding myself up on the sink, eventually just letting go and crumbling onto the tile floor in a sobbing heap.
I didn’t know how to accept joy. I didn’t have the experience a friend had when her dad died—the forgetful “Oh, right, I can’t call him, he’s dead.” I didn’t stop thinking about Marcus long enough for that lapse to happen. Sometimes I would call him anyway, let the phone ring, with some secret twisted wish that he might actually pick up. His phone numbers, all nine of them still in my speed dial (three for each country—office, cell, home in Germany, Mexico and Portland), had been disconnected. No trace of his voice was left anywhere. No voice-mail recording. No video tape. Nothing. Just what I could still hear in my head. Or in the woods. The sound of him saying “bloody hell,” or “brilliant” instead of the American slang “awesome” still resonated. As did his use of the word penultimate. I had never even heard the word before; it was embarrassing to admit, especially as a writer, that his English was more advanced than mine. I missed his vocabulary. I missed his voice. I missed him.
When I finally stopped gawking over the giant photo of my hands and lattice crust, I read Jen’s story. My heart swelled with what I would call big-sisterly pride that she had taken my suggestion and run with it. I had encouraged her to take the story focus off me and encompass the growing pie scene in Portland. And she did. She included all the places I had applied for jobs, as well as a new meat pie shop called Pacific Pie Company run by a darling Australian-American couple. Mainly, she conveyed the most important message: pie is about sharing. Pie is not political. Pie can make the world a better place.
CHAPTER
16
When I booked my trip to Orlando for the National Pie Championships, it had seemed like a good idea. I hadn’t factored in some of the details, like how I would be flying out of Portland’s airport. What I had not considered—hadn’t even thought to consider—was that the past five times I had been in Portland’s airport were related to Marcus’s death.
These memories must be what triggered the grief burst. In a surprise attack of sadness, I began crying from the moment I entered the Portland airport and didn’t stop the entire six-hour flight to Florida. I had to lock myself in the lavatory four times and stayed in there each time until someone knocked on the door to get in. I was familiar with grief bursts—I had experienced my share—and was equally aware how they snuck up on you like a mugger, tackled you from behind, beat the shit out of you and stole your dignity, along with any sense of progress. And they too often cornered you in public places. Like airplanes.
Exhausted by my extended cross-country crying jag, I landed in Orlando, “The Happiest Place on Earth.” I stepped off the plane and into masses of families with young kids wearing Mickey Mouse ears and carrying Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals. Disneyworld. How could I have forgotten? I raced to baggage claim to get away from the onslaught of happiness-infused humanity and, after learning my luggage didn’t make the flight and spending forty-five minutes filing a claim for it, I waited over an hour for the shuttle bus to my hotel. By this time I was really steaming. And not from the humidity.
I was the last stop out of six hotel drop-offs and had become so out of my mind with frustration and fatigue I didn’t feel I could go straight to my room. I was sharing accommodations with Gina Hyams, the author of “Pie Contest in a Box.” I had never met her, I was not in a good mood and didn’t want her to think I was going to be a nightmare roommate. So instead of going to the hotel room, I went to the bar. “Just one glass of wine,” I told myself. “That will help take the edge off. Then I’ll go upstairs.” It was already midnight; she was probably asleep anyway.
The bar of the resort hotel was dark and elegant and, thankfully, wasn’t crowded. I was the furthest thing from a barfly, so the fewer people the better. I sat at a bar stool, slung my jacket on the back, and then came the moment that changed everything. I didn’t order a glass of wine.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender.
“I’ll have a vodka martini, dry with three olives.”
For me, there is a wide chasm between wine and hard liquor. Wine is my beverage of choice. Like the French, I believe a daily glass of red wine is good for you. But if I choose a martini, it can mean only one thing: danger. Exhausted, full of rage and still wearing my cloak of grief, I was feeling particularly reckless. I pulled out my BlackBerry and hit a number on the speed dial.
“Hi, Dad, it’s Beth.”
“Hi, Boo, what are you up to?”
I’m up to no good, Dad. Just like you taught me. Why do you think I thought of calling you? “I’m in Florida for that pie contest. I’m at the bar and I just ordered a martini.”
He broke into laughter. I knew he would, which is why I called him. “Good for you. I’m drinking one, too.”
I stayed on the phone with my dad longer than I needed, mostly because I noticed that the drunk man sitting next to me at the bar was watching me closely. A little too closely. He was handsome enough, in that former-high-school-jock kind of way, but I wasn’t in the bar to pick up men. I tried sending him some telepathic communication: Dude, trust me. You don’t want to get close to me. I am damaged goods.
Once I hung up with my dad, I avoided the drunk guy’s attempt at conversation by giving him curt, one-word answers to his vapid questions like, “What brings you here?” I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to drown my sorrows. I had already slugged down the martini and ordered a second one.
Not only was there a pie contest taking place at the hotel, there was a truck supplier convention. I discovered this when a guy came breezing by in a Red Wings hockey jersey wearing a huge name tag around his neck. He was slender, boyish looking but graying at the temples, and had a twinkle in his eye. By his air of confidence and easy smile, I got the immediate sense he was in sales. Part wanting to be saved from the drunk guy, part under the influence of my second martini, and, okay, maybe I was actively seeking trouble, I grabbed his lanyard as he walked by.
“Truck business? Who do you work for?” I asked, pulling his tag closer to read his name, “… John?” Marcus had worked for the truck division of his German automotive manufacturer, so anything truck related got my attention. I didn’t recognize the name of this guy’s company, but we established in the first ten seconds that he did business with Marcus’s group, and knew some of Marcus’s colleagues. “Do you know so and so?” I asked, referring to the former CEO of the company.
“Yes, I do a lot of business in Portland. I’ve met him a few times.”
“When I used to drop off my husband at work, I would see him standing outside smoking his cigarettes. Since they banned smoking in the office, he didn’t have a choice. Seeing as he’s German, I’m sure he didn’t like that too much.”
Oh, it wasn’t pretty. I felt sorry for the guy. He had no idea who he had invited to his hotel room. From the moment he put his lips on mine and his hands reached to unbutton my blouse, the familiar saline eye secretions began—slowly at first, then, as his kisses became more urgent, so did my tears. Soon, I was a sobbing mess. But we were both wasted enough it didn’t stop us.
It had to happen sometime. I had to break the spell Marcus had on me. It might as well have been a stranger who I would never have to see again. Before I had a chance to register what had happened, I passed out.
I woke up in the morning with a raging headache and a desperate need to brush my teeth. I snuck out of the room while—what was his name again?—John was still asleep and did the walk of shame, three floors down, to the room I was supposed to be staying in.
I swiped my card key and let myself in. I was greeted by a cheerful woman in a matching green polka-dot sweater set and skirt. “Hi, Gina,” I said. “I’m Beth.” I winced from both my headache and my self-consciousness.
Making Piece Page 17