Devonne Brown

The boys and I got to have Christmas together the year we thought Dad was going to die.  

I quit making turkey years ago and I cooked roasts instead. Mom would have been horrified if she were still alive, turkey with dressing was the only way to fly as far as she was concerned.

I’m going to digress for a bit, because the best smell of Christmas wasn’t turkey, roast, or the pies, but coffee.

I made the requisite pumpkin pies, with whatever spices were in that square metal jar, I never read the contents, and didn’t care either. As long as there was enough whipped cream to cover the pumpkin pies the boys were ecstatic. They thought that was the best part. So did I, I made the real stuff, Cool Whip was an abomination at Christmas time.

Raisin pie was my favorite pie in those days. My grandmother, “Momal” was what we called her, was her specialty. It took me years to perfect them, but I did. They were as satisfying as chocolate, They still are. 

Hot with vanilla ice cream, those raisins popping a bit with sweetness of their own and very little sugar in the pot, blind baking the crust, o my Lord, a wonder to behold. My raisin pies brought my aunts and uncles out of their houses and to my tables every year, not to dinner, but to dessert just for those. 

I was still baking past ten when I sent the boys upstairs to bed.

Then there were still presents to wrap. I put off everything as long as I could, always the consummate procrastinator.

“You can’t come downstairs before 6:00 o’clock, and you’d better have the coffee ready before you get me out of bed,” That was the directive I gave the boys. They wouldn’t dare come downstairs before it was time. 

“She said not to wake her up till the coffee was done,” I heard Ian whisper.

I smiled.

And then I heard my mother laugh as plain as day.