Once, I Ate a Pie

On returning home one evening just before Christmas, my younger son walked into the kitchen ahead of me. "Oh my god!" he cried. "What happened?" His voice was high and shrill, though he does tend toward drama. Just a step behind, I soon took in the scene, and with the evidence before me, did some quick math. A teapot lay on the floor, the lid halfway across the kitchen, next to a sauce pan. A cookie sheet rested against the oven door and in the corner, an overturned, empty pie plate half hid itself under the cupboards. I knew exactly what happened.

"Once, I ate a pie," I said. My son looked up at me, a quizzical look on his face. He shrugged his shoulders, cocked his head, and raised one eyebrow. He has a wonderful children's book of poems about dogs from which I was stealing the title, Once I Ate a Pie, and I knew that he would soon make the connection, as I had. In the poem by the same name, a chubby Pug takes his food treasures to the basement to devour in pleasure and privacy, ending with the pie. My son's curious face looked around again; it did look like a disaster had befallen the kitchen. "Look over in the corner," I prompted. "Once, I ate a pie," I said again, for emphasis.

My eight-year-old turned to me, his mouth hanging open. "Nicholai?" "Why yes, I believe you are correct." I had left an entire, freshly baked pumpkin pie at the back of the stove, which mind you, is two feet away from the edge. I had placed the sauce pan and the teapot in front of the pie, as a barrier. Clearly, none of that conferred adequate pie protection and not a drop of filling, nor a crumb of flakey crust was left. "I believe we'll be seeing some pumpkin-pie poop for the next day or two," I said with a smile, "and we will know who the culprit is for sure." And we did.