Now that we’re coming into the fall season, pie is coming back up on my radar. I personally like pie, but I may or may not have a something in common with the main character in this story… how do you feel about chocolate pie?
Fourteen chocolate pies are sitting on my counter top. Each one is the same but somehow individual. Some have little swirls of whipped cream, others none at all, and some have a mountain fluffy, white sweetness covering everything. The crusts are each crumbly and golden looking.
It would be a mouth watering sight, except I hate chocolate pie.
I know, I know, what self-respecting southerner hates chocolate pie? This one. In fact, I dislike most pie. I blame it on my Nana, who never made pie but instead made apple strudel like it was going out of style.
This is a prank. That’s the only explanation to having fourteen chocolate pies show up on the same day. There hasn’t been a death in my family, no one is having a birthday, and as far as I know I’ve not been selected to judge a contest. So. How is every free inch of my kitchen covered in the worst kind of pie known to man?
Thumping footsteps alert me to my 6-year-old son, Theo. He bounds into the kitchen and stops with a gasp. Slack-jawed, he slowly counts.
“Mom! Fourteen pies!”
“Yep.” I take a sip of my coffee and glare around at the offending desserts.
“My wish came true!” Theo shouts in glee.
“What?” I stare at him. “What wish?”
“I wished on my loose tooth that I could have chocolate pie for breakfast,” Theo beams at me.
“Did you make the wish fourteen times?”
A blush rises in my son’s cheeks. “Um, yeah.”
I want to laugh at how sheepish he looks. “Well, bud, normally that’s not how wishes work.”
“I might have prayed about it too . . .” he mumbles.
“I have a hard time believing God just sent us fourteen pies, Theo. They had to come from someone. The Holy Spirit didn’t open the kitchen door and sneak them in here.”
There’s a heavy silence made even more weighty by the rich chocolate scent that has taken up firm residence in my nose. I eye my son and wait for a confession. Did he steal my credit card and order these? That seems very unlikely as he’s six.
Finally, he breaks the silence with a sigh so loud he ruffles his messy bangs. “I can’t explain it, Mom. It’s a summer miracle.”
I feel my jaw come loose in surprise. Maybe he is innocent in this. But if he is, that means someone snuck into my house last night and that’s way more terrifying than Theo pulling a weird prank. Panic starts to creep into my chest. Do I need to get a security system?
My phone buzzes and I pick it up on autopilot, already trying to figure out who to call to install an alarm. Theo grabs a pie and a fork, cheerfully stuffing his face. I’m about to warn him that the pies could be laced with something when my eyes focus on the text from my mother.
A winky face and two pie emojis dance across my screen.
Storm Shultz 