freepix.com
by Suzanne C Martinez
When we were kids, our mother claimed, she was forced to cook dinner for her family of seven every night from age twelve until she married our father, who also expected dinner every night, so she cooked daily with great resentment because she was an artist, destined for extraordinary things.
But only for Thanksgiving, she’d make her best thing, her sole kitchen triumph, her unforgettable butterscotch meringue pie – from scratch.
Using proportions magically stored in her head, she’d measure the flour, water, and shortening by eye for the crust and patiently cook the eggs, milk, cornstarch, and brown sugar, constantly stirring, to make the custard.
Once she’d baked the crust to a golden brown, she’d fill it with the thickened butterscotch filling, followed by a stiff layer of severely whipped egg whites, which she’d place under the broiler to brown the meringue tips standing proudly on top.
Years later, we can still close our eyes, awed by its symmetrical perfection displayed on the counter before she cut anyone a piece and imagine inhaling its unique aroma, tasting its velvety sweetness, and biting into the perfect crunch of the crust.
Brimming with domestic contentment, we forgive her the hundreds of awful dinners she’d served us all year long for one piece of her pie because she truly was an artist, and butterscotch pie was her pièce de resistance.
Suzanne C Martinez’s fiction has appeared in Wigleaf, Vestal Review, The Citron Review, Gone Lawn, and The Broadkill Review, among others, and was nominated for Pushcart Prizes (2019, 2020), The Best of the Net (2020), and Best Short Fictions (2022). She lives in Brooklyn. X: @SuzanneCMartin3 • IG: s.martinez1441 • FB: scm1441
