A Slice of Pie is Born Every Minute

Pumpkin pie, cherry pie, pecan (that's puh-can to you darlin') pie, the dreaded mincemeat pie (yuk!) and, of course, the requisite peach pie (real peaches, real pie crust or we're not true southerners honey). These pies, as well as a plethora of cakes, ambrosia and other baked goods, made quite an appearance at countless family Thanksgivings and Christmas Eves in Greenville, SC during the 1980s and most of the 90s.

When I was growing up, there were quite a few things I could be certain of happening during these family get-togethers: my uncle Steve, standing tall and lanky in his cowboy boots, would launch into entertaining stories sprinkled with conspiracy theories (the greatest being his intention to launch a line of emergency bomb shelters); my great aunt would greet everyone with "sugar" (pronounced "shuug-gah"),  leaving her pink Coty lipstick for you to wipe off your face; my great grandfather would take a nap in the family room immediately following lunch (in the same room as everyone else talking at very high volumes), and, oftentimes, my uncles would cap the festivities off by scurrying up the pecan tree to make the nuts rain down upon all of us (so we had some pecans for next year's pie). Oh, and I cannot forget, my great grandfather (prior to the nap and food), would take out his ancient camera was shaped like a box, hold it to his waist, look into the view finder and snap a family photo.

But the greatest of all events that I could count upon to happen without fail each and every single time, would occur at the dessert table. You would see beautiful cakes and pies, just sitting out so innocently on the table. They looked delicious - glimmering, trusting, yearning, just waiting for someone to eat them. Like pictures straight out of Southern Living magazine. But, the plot soon would thicken...little did they know that quickly after their arrival, something unsuspecting, something devilish, something that may be considered the antithesis to southern hospitality would happen to them -- they would meet the knife!

When I say knife, it wasn't just a few starter slices, a few slices designed to prod the bashful "I don't have room for desert" family member over the edge with easy access. No, no, no, these babies were sliced until there were no more cuts to make! Who was responsible for this desecration, you may ask? My grandmother participated, but was only a minor conspirator, an accessory to the battery being inflicted. It was my great aunt Dora who "took the cake" (of course pun intended). It was she who would attack those pies and cakes. And, she showed no mercy. She did it proudly.

My grandmother and her sister were of the Cox family clan, which has got to be one of the largest families in all of South Carolina. There was never a pie or cake that family met that it didn't like (or cut). I remember traveling with my mom out somewhere in the depths of the South Carolina heartland to a Cox family reunion. I can't remember much about the visit, but I will always remember the dessert table - there must have been about 20 desserts (all homemade mind you) - cakes, pies, delicious delicacies -- and not one was unmolested! All were cut as if to say, "if the house happens to burn down any minute and you can take just one thing, grab yourself a piece of pie for pete's sake!" Let's just say that love of slicing and dicing the pie was definitely in the Cox blood.

As being an ancestor to the Cox family and a non-picky eater, I must say that the cake and pie slicing didn't bother me. Sometimes the slicing got messy, so it was hard to get the exact slice you wanted (and let me just tell you there were no "diet" sized slices, it was like being at the Cheesecake Factory!). But, again, I wasn't bothered, and I don't think most of the family was either. But, it wasn't so for an outsider.

One holiday my great grandfather (who was in his 90s and widowed) brought the latest lady he was courting to the family gathering. She showed up with the most beautiful homemade peach pie with a perfectly brown and flakey pie top. She marched in the house, with her head held high and wearing a very pink skirt suit. She cozied up to my great grandfather and presented him with her pride and joy - the pie. In a flash, that pie was out of her hands. Aunt Dora, sensing a change in the dessert atmosphere, had commandeered the pie and whisked it off to meet its inevitable demise. In a matter of minutes, the pie resurfaced on the dessert table - sliced up clear and through in about 12 pieces. The look on the lady friend's face was priceless - she had too much southern charm to say anything unladylike to any one's face, but let's just say that we never saw her again.

I can't claim that the sudden urge to slice into a cake or pie has gotten into me yet, but I'm sure as sure as the Cox blood of my ancestors burns through my veins, this desire will manifest itself one day. I probably won't even be aware of it, until I look down and see the purty pie all cut to pieces! I will know it to be one of my Cox ancestors, bringing the hand of God down from heaven to cut that lovely pie.