A Mud Pie for Otis

Story ID:	1633
Written by:	Betty (BJ) Roan
Story type:	Family Memories
Writers Conference:	$500 2007 Family Memories Writing Project
Location:	Cumberland County IL USA
Year:	1956

Remember when mud pies were all the rage? A time when pretend was the best toy in the toy box, or when a box could still hold all your toys? That was before video games turned eyes wild and gave thumbs a life of their own, when brothers and sisters still played together.

Those days hold fond memories for me. It was a time when my brother was my best friend. He was always kind, and made me feel safe and protected. I can’t think of one instance when he was mean or treated me badly. I’m not saying we didn’t fight, I’m saying the good memories outshine the bad. Besides, I was the mean kid.

We pretended to be airplane pilots, cowboys, and farmers. Mostly things that boys like to do, after all he was older and professed to be smarter. Occasionally it would be my turn to choose. I always made him play house. He complained, but met the challenge head-on.

We didn’t have one of those specially constructed playhouses that today’s parents buy from Home Depot. Our playhouse didn’t come equipped with a stove, refrigerator, or dishwasher. There were no cabinets filled with plastic food containers from Toys-R-Us or tiny dishes made from real china. Our playhouse was a patch of moss under a big tree in the woods. The dishes were plastic containers given to us by aunts and uncles, who often stopped for ice cream on Sundays. The sink was a stream down the hill, the kitchen table a tree stump. The stove was a barrel used to burn trash, back before the EPA banned such activities. Imagination transformed our playhouse into a mansion.

On one particularly warm fall day, my dad was cleaning out the storage shed. He had a large pile of debris to burn, which meant the oven would soon be preheated.

“Otis, let’s bake a mud pie,” I said.

“Not now, I’m busy,” was his quick response.

“Please,” I wheedled. “Please, please, please.”

“Not now, I’m busy,” he said, turning away.

“I’ll help you build your stupid old fort if you play house with me now.”

That stopped him. Otis had been trying to get me to help him build that fort all summer. “Okay,” he said as he picked up the sand pale and tiny shovel. “I’ll go dig the dirt.”

“I’ll gather acorns,” I called after him.

I mixed the dirt and water together until it was just the right consistency, and then poured the thick, murky mixture into a tin can. The acorns were crushed and sprinkled lavishly on top. The pie was ready for the oven. Otis carefully placed the pie on the screen resting atop the now hot barrel. All we had to do was set the table and wait for the pie to bake.

As the aroma of burning wood wafted through the trees, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I almost believed my favorite cherry pie would soon be ready to taste.

I carefully placed empty banana split boats on the stump table. I searched for perfectly shaped leaves to use as napkins and positioned plastic spoons on top. I gathered a few sticks and more leaves and fashioned a centerpiece to rival Martha Stewart’s best. Then it was time to check on the pie.

When the pie had finished baking, I carefully placed it on a fallen log, a.k.a. the window sill, to cool, while I stood guard to make sure no one came by to sneak a taste.

When the pie was the proper temperature for eating, Otis and I sat down at the table. I cut and served the pie while he scooped invisible ice cream on top. It was time for that first delectable bite.

“I wonder if mud pie really tastes like pie,” my brother wondered aloud.

“Why don’t you taste it and see,” I encouraged.

I watched as he filled his spoon with a generous scoop of the muddy pie filling and lifted it toward his mouth. He paused, at which time I believed he would regain his sanity and stop, but he didn’t. Otis grimaced, spit, sputtered, and wiped his tongue on his shirt sleeve.

“Well?” I asked.

“Nope, tastes like mud,” he declared.

Unfortunately, not even imagination can make a mud pie taste good.