I was born on Thanksgiving Day. So when childhood birthdays came around, I was surrounded with the smells of sugar, butter and the grand celebrations of all the colorful holidays that followed through the winter months. The opener always began in the great African American tradition with Sweet Potato Pie. While I did have the rare birthday cake, most were celebrated with sweet potato pie- candles and all. Momma would make them just for me, or so I believed. In actuality, there were eight to ten people living in the house on any given day, so she would churn those pies out in sets of four and six at a time. The house became a giant bakery.
The truth is, I could eat a whole pie myself but I didn’t appreciate being the target of all the fussing that came behind it. “Girl, is you done ate the whole pie? Leave a little. Everybody wants some...” So, I ate in small sliver slices, making several trips to the kitchen when no one was looking. It actually tasted better than a mouth full of sweet potato mush; and with coffee in the morning- it was breakfast. I took a pie to college once. My roommate said, “Don’t you want to wrap it up and refrigerate it so it will be fresh for tomorrow?” It never occurred to me that a pie could last longer than a few hours...
The truth is, I could eat a whole pie myself but I didn’t appreciate being the target of all the fussing that came behind it. “Girl, is you done ate the whole pie? Leave a little. Everybody wants some...” So, I ate in small sliver slices, making several trips to the kitchen when no one was looking. It actually tasted better than a mouth full of sweet potato mush; and with coffee in the morning- it was breakfast. I took a pie to college once. My roommate said, “Don’t you want to wrap it up and refrigerate it so it will be fresh for tomorrow?” It never occurred to me that a pie could last longer than a few hours...
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