The Abernathy Pie Festival
Lit Up — August’s Prompt: Harvest Season
Pinckney, MI — 1996
There aren’t many people in Southern Michigan who don’t know the name, Faith Abernathy. Even before the hipsters moved into Ann Arbor, the Abernathy Pie Festival brought thousands each year to the little old pioneer town of Pinckney. They’d come in droves from Detroit, Toledo, even Toronto and cram into a 20 acre plot just to get a single slice of her succulent pies. Faith’s son, Ewell, had spent enough time chasing girls and living out his big city dreams, now it was his duty to carry on the tradition and learn the
top-secret family recipe that had been passed down through generations.
Faith hadn’t let him in on the secret yet, knowing what kind of temptations Ewell would be offered to share such prized knowledge. But now her bones hurt more than she cared to admit. It was time to past the torch. This year would be the last time she’d cook “MI’s most delectable pies” for the hordes of dessert lovers that came to her door. The festival had gone on for hours before Faith called Ewell over from the hay maze to share the exciting news.
“Yes Mamma?” He waited patiently for the frail woman to speak. “This is all yours now Ewell. As of right now, Faith Gwyneth Abernathy is officially retiring from the pie business. I’m done baking for strangers.” Ewell’s head reared in surprise, “what do you mean you’re ‘done?’ People come to the Abernathy Pie Festival to see you, not your no-name son. They’ll all be gone in two years!” She laughed, “No boy, they don’t come for me, they come for the pies. Once you learn the secret recipe, you’ll have them like flies to honey.”
Ewell’s heart raced. He had waited for this day for as long as he could remember. When he was a boy, she’d bake the two of them a pie to share every Sunday in Autumn. Each bite was a euphoric mélange of spice and sweetness, a taste so divine he’d smell it in his dreams. Now it was his time to master the sacred tradition. “I love you Momma. I won’t let you down.” Faith placed a tired hand against Ewell’s cheek. “I know Son. I love you too.”
When the pie had finally run out and the cries of children had vanished and the SUVs headed back to their parallel parking spaces, Faith and Ewell gathered around a small cluster of perfectly ripe pumpkins, surrounded by a sea of leafy, green vines. She rolled up her sleeves and pulled an old garden trowel out from her back pocket. “Now, you already know how to bake our pies, well that’s easy part. The real challenge and famous flavor comes with creating the perfect fertilizer.” Faith gently pushed one of the orange balls of sunshine to the side and dug deep into the moist soil below. Ewell always figured that the secret ingredient had some powder or oil hidden deep within the kitchen cabinet — he’d spent years searching for it when no one else was home. She continued digging until her trowel struck hard soil.
“Here it is, Son. Take a look.”
Ewell could barely contain his excitement. He positioned himself over the hole and pulled away a thin layer of soil with his hands, revealing a patch in the ground that was as white as the moon overhead. “I find that the younger they are, the sweeter the pies come out.”
Ewell fell on his back. “I…don’t understand, Momma.” She smiled, “sure you do, Son. Now listen, this part is the hardest because you’ll need about 50 of these little ones each year to grow enough pumpkins for all those pies. I’ve found that driving across 23 and into the city is the easiest way. Nobody seems to miss those city kids. It’s sad really.”
Faith dropped the trowel, pushed off of her aching knees, and stood up. “Where are you going, Momma?” She wiped the soil from her palms and looked down at the warm hole in the ground. “Oh, I know exactly where I’m going Ewell. But until then, I hear Florida is a nice and warm place for little old lady such as myself.”
