Fudge Pie
When family ties trump the worst dessert ever
“I’m going to make fudge pie,” I announced to no one in particular one wintry afternoon.
Never mind that I was a preteen with limited baking experience. Or that, until now, my culinary life meant showing up to eat on time.
School was out, and Christmas was still a week away. I was restless and ready for a challenge. When my mom asked if I needed any help, I assured her I could manage on my own.
Why I chose fudge pie is a mystery. Whatever the reason, my family would be the benefactors of my first creation.
I could already envision the praise. Trying new things was my forte, and I usually fared well. Playing the piano, writing skits for school plays… These were all successful childhood endeavors.
I was also a supreme lemon-twister… Like a hula hoop on steroids, this sturdy apparatus slipped over your foot, and you hopped the attached plastic lemon as it swung around. I’m fairly certain my love of food correlates with that piece of fruit constantly dangling from my ankle.
Baking fudge pie was more challenging than conquering the lemon twist, but I was up for it.
As I gathered the ingredients — a pie shell, cocoa, eggs, walnuts, vanilla — I had a flash of brilliance. Surely, my mom would appreciate having an extra pie in the freezer. What better dessert to serve with Christmas dinner?
Proud of myself for being so conscientious, I grabbed another pie crust. After doubling the cocoa and eggs, I scraped walnuts from the bottom of their plastic storage bag, thankful there was just enough to meet the recipe’s requirements.
The prep work done, I stirred the batter and poured it into the pie shells before sliding them into the preheated oven. I was so excited, I cleaned up the prep area while the fudge pies cooked. Normally, cleaning was reserved for those times when punishment was imminent. But I was too excited to do anything else.
The timer finally went off. As I opened the oven door, the rich, comforting aroma of cocoa filled the kitchen. With sturdy oven mitts, I clasped the hot pie plates and positioned them on the stovetop to cool, just like I’d seen my mom do.
After a brief wait — all I could stand, my youthful impatience stretched to its breaking point — I cut two slices and laid them delicately on plates. I added a dollop of whipped cream to both and made my way to the basement, where my dad and brother were watching football as they tended to the woodstove.
I handed over the plates and beamed as they each took a bite of pie.
Satisfied, I returned to the kitchen to sample my concoction. Dreams of having a family someday — of baking treats for my kids to celebrate the holidays — flowed through me like the batter I’d poured into the pie shells.
I can do this, I thought, my confidence at an all-time high.
And then I took a bite.
My face puckered, and the grit of walnut shells pricked my gums. Not only had I neglected to remove the shell bits mixed in with the walnuts, but I had also forgotten to add a second portion of vanilla when I doubled the recipe.
I hadn’t made fudge pie! I’d concocted a bitter blend of spongy gravel. It was sheer luck my dessert hadn’t cracked a tooth.
My first attempt at baking dessert for my family, and I botched it.
I stifled my tears and threw both pies in the trash.
To my family’s credit, they put their empty plates in the sink when I wasn’t there. They never offered a critique, and I didn’t dare ask.
Twenty-five years later, I stood in the same kitchen, preparing Christmas dinner. Only this time, I was a mom with several holiday meal preparations under my belt.
As I put the final touches on the meal for our now-extended family, my brother couldn’t resist teasing me about that fateful wintry day.
“That pie you made was the worst thing I ever tasted,” he said, eying the food I now served with skepticism.
My shoulders relaxed as he took a bite and nodded in approval.
I don’t recall what I served for dessert, but it wasn’t fudge pie. As everyone dug in, my brother shared in vivid detail the disgusting taste and texture of my cocoa mess. He confessed to dumping both slices of pie out the back window after I left.
Instead of being embarrassed or upset, I laughed so hard I cried. Enough time had passed to erase the sting of failure, and my brother’s candid assessment was correct. The pie I’d made was awful.
Like life, my efforts in the kitchen often bring unintended results.
From undercooked casseroles to homemade stir fry that gave me and my hubby food poisoning, my culinary adventures are a beautiful blend of failure and success. But I have a family that loves me, imperfections and all. This keeps me from giving up or ruing the failures. Instead, I keep trying new things and improving my skills.
One day, I’ll dig up that fudge pie recipe and prove to my family and myself I can make an adequate version. But, for now, I’ll settle for my delectable apple crisp.
I just have to remind myself to shell the walnuts beforehand.
*This essay was published in Promptly Written.
