Honestly Elliott: Part Three

“Then what’s the problem? Are we just going to have weird trendy food? Because I can assure you that no one will want to eat it.”
“Some people will,” Maribel says.
I scoff.

“Trust me,” she says ominously. “You do not want to know.”

I can make paella with my eyes closed. How hard could it be to make a few pies?

From the fridge, I grab a container of hummus, a dozen baby carrots, two hard-boiled eggs, some of yesterday’s tuna salad, and a hearty glob of sunflower butter.

I’ve been coming here my whole life—its brick walls and striped vinyl booths are imprinted in my memory.

“Don’t bite ice,” Dad says. “That will ruin your tooth enamel.”

A tortilla chip wedges in my throat, and I start coughing wildly. Shards of chips spray everywhere.

Everyone in the restaurant is staring at me. I’m a mess. I’m also mortified.

“What do you mean? You mean you hate that you cried at a restaurant?”
“I mean crying anywhere,” I say glumly.

This means squeaky-clean counters, bowls, and utensils. No using any butter that might have bread crumbs in it. Mom even bought a new colander, just to be on the safe side.

She’s rubbing behind Omelet’s ears, and he has a look of total bliss on his face.

“I don’t use recipes.” Does my voice sound snide?

It’s good that Maribel gets to see me in this environment, where I’m so detail oriented.

Maribel looks at me skeptically. “What’s the plan, then—mixing stuff together? That doesn’t seem like much of a technique.”

“Sorry, I just meant to say that we can figure out the right proportions by eyeballing it.”

Even though I’ve never made a crust, I’ve seen Griffin Connor make savory pies.

Tilting the bowl, I prod the dough ball until it rolls onto the counter with a thud.

Maribel sets down her phone and smiles at me. It’s a truce, for the moment anyway.

Maribel pulls out the pie pan and sets it on the trivet.

The strawberries are sweet and tart. Adding the vanilla was a good idea—it adds complexity and depth.

As I get closer to the library though, it starts coming down harder. I duck underneath the awning for Sugar Rose.

“So far it’s mostly lots of fighting over the design. Victor wants it to be more authentic, but Drew says we should simplify it so we can make a greater quantity. Gilbert doesn’t care as long as we get an A.”

Honestly, I could probably learn a lot from Maribel. She’s organized. Thorough.

“Maribel, I’m sorry about what happened at my house. I don’t have an excuse for it. But it wasn’t anything you did. I think—well, I know—that I was flustered and embarrassed because things weren’t turning out how I thought they would. But I shouldn’t have acted the way I did.”

“Did you bring that receipt for the strawberries? Ms. Choi said we don’t have to track items we already have around, like the vanilla from your pantry. But we’ll definitely have to record the strawberries since they’re perishable.”

"There’s a hundred-dollar budget for the entire project. So that means we could make around eight pies. Maybe ten, if we skimp on the berries.”

Half of the aisles are local, artisanal foods. And the other half are prepared foods, easy meals for people to grab to heat up the rest of the way at home or even salads and sandwiches and wraps for lunches.

“They have all these little specialty counters, and I used to like going around to see what they had each time. It got so that people would see me coming and make special things for me to try. I was a little kid, but I loved everything—even habanero herring over pickled salsa.”

“Look at this, Pies of All Kinds. That sounds promising. Pecan pie?”

“Cobblers, crisps, and crumbles,” I say. “Apple Brown Betty and Blueberry Slump.”
“Hummingbird Cake,” Maribel says. “Lady Baltimore Cake. Where are all the pies?”

They exist because of the ingenuity of home bakers. There were times when it wasn’t easy to get fresh fruit, but it was usually possible to keep the ingredients for these pies on hand.

“Technically, I think the one you found is called a vinegar pie. There are other desperation pies too—chess pie, buttermilk pie, mock apple pie.”
She’s scrolling faster than I can read. “Mock apple pie?”
“It’s fake apple pie,” Maribel says. “It’s made with boiled crackers soaked in sugar.”

“I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches tonight,” she says. “How do you want yours—arugula, bacon, and fig jam? Brie, apple, and honey mustard? Cheddar and blackberry jelly?”

Her eyebrows are furrowed in mock-concern.

“Well, in that case, can you caramelize some onions for us? You know I always burn them to a crisp.”