Three or four times a year, my grandparent's kitchen table turned into a giant buffet style serving station filled with side dishes. The counter by the sink transformed into a makeshift drink stand. The main protein – turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas, barbecue on the 4th of July – rested on the stovetop. Someone would hand out plastic plates and utensils as we entered the kitchen and the free-for-all would begin.
There we all were, a tangle of arms and legs. Usually there were about 30 of us -- My grandmother and grandfather, five children and spouses and 13 grandchildren, all attacking a table the size of door. And that didn't count any interlopers or hangers-ons would we would bring with us. Friends and distant cousins were apt to show up.
As was our Great Uncle Dick, who I cannot remember ever missing a meal at my grandmother's after his wife, Aunt Lola died. My grandmother didn't let anyone go with a plate of food.
We'd all get our food, then find a spot – floor for kids, furniture for adults – and we'd eat, talk and laugh. Then someone would spill something. At least three people would get wet. There'd be a major clean up and then we'd all return to eating, talking and laughing.
And when were finished? ROUND TWO! The infamous desert table, perhaps the most sacred and wonderful part of Wilson family meals.
It was just as big as the kitchen table, only it held cakes, pies and any other form of treat my grandmother would whip up. We all had our favorites and our requests. And MawMaw was always willing to accommodate.
For me, it was her chocolate pie.
It would be unfair to say that no one help MawMaw with the cooking. My daddy is a master pie-maker and he usually would cart over several deserts each year. But there was just something special about the way MawMaw made things. They tasted better. Was it some secret ingredient? The love, perhaps? Maybe it was her oven. I don't know why, but MawMaw's just tasted special. After you've had that, all other variations fail to compare.
It's been more than a handful of years since I had MawMaw's pie. But I can still remember how it tasted and how those holidays felt surrounded by family. Yesterday afternoon, my husband and I went for an early dinner at a local, famed barbecue place. After we ate our delicious meal, I eyed the counter where a series of very pretty pies seemed to call to me. We ordered and egg custard for me – another of my grandmother's specialties – and a classic chocolate pie for my husband. The custard was amazingly good, but not at all like what I was used.
Without really thinking, I reached over and forked bite of the chocolate pie. We were talking about something in the news. Something significant, but now I can't remember what. The instant that pie touched my tongue my chest became heavy and my throat seemed to close for a moment. Emotion ran through my body and I – without explanation – burst into tears.
If you had put a gun to my head and asked me who made that pie: I would have there is no question, that's MawMaw's.
But MawMaw's been gone for nearly two years.
In that one bite I began remembering things that hadn't crossed my mind in years. Not all of the memories are pleasant. Some are devastating and filled with loss. A lot of them are flashes of the person I used to be – a child filled with innocence and fearlessness. And there are countless flashes of my sisters and cousins playing in the yard, hiding Easter eggs, picking up pecans, swinging from the large oak tree, climbing the hill behind the shed and shooting fireworks at bikers (oops).
We are not that different from our childhood selves, yet we are further apart then we'd like to admit. I have a wonderful life and an amazing husband and I wouldn't trade today for then. But if I had the opportunity to sit at that kitchen table again, drinking coffee and playing cards with my grandparents, I would take it.
And I would ask MawMaw exactly what did she put in that pie.
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Special thanks to my Aunt Teri for this little gem. In case you are wondering, I'm the fat one with the mullet.
