She takes in the jars of canned goods, the half stick of butter, the empty carton of eggs, the baking soda spilled down the side of the microwave.

“Did you figure it out?”

“Well,” I say, rubbing the crusties out of my eyes, “it’s not custard or caramel or almond or strawberry or chocolate or licorice.”

“Licorice?”

“I’m ruling nothing out.”

“I’m not sure process of elimination is your best bet here, El.”

Mom sweeps a big pile of eggshells into the trash under the sink.

“If you have a better idea, you let me know.”

“Hey, don’t get sassy with me now. You want me to help you with a bath?”

“No.” The dream is still too real. “I’m going to lie down for a little bit.”

“All right. We’ve got church at ten, though, and you know your Mema.”

In church, I try a different strategy.

Dear God,

Please help me find the perfect pie, the one that’s the most me. Or at least give me a hint.

And also, I know you saw that dream last night, because according to Genesis, you know just about everything. I want you to know that I’m not going to ask for that, okay? I’m not going to ask for some sort of miracle.

But if I were going to ask for a miracle, would you please help Grandpa? I don’t mind the CP so much most of the time, but I think the stuff with Grandpa is driving him a little crazy. Or crazier. And I don’t mean that in a mean way. I mean, I think he’s tired of being confused, and I think maybe that might be worse than not walking? So I guess I’m asking, could you please make him better?

And also help me with my pie.

Amen.

I don’t know if it was the prayer or what, but when we bow our heads for the benediction—the blessing at the end of the service—I get an idea.

“You want me to rinse these for you?”

It’s the day of the fish fry, and I’ve just put the pie in the oven. If this one isn’t perfect, there won’t be any time for a re-do. Coralee is sitting on the kitchen table, smack on top with her legs crossed like she’s about to meditate.

“No. Stay where you are. This kitchen is tiny enough as it is, and I need the space.” It’s also a thousand degrees in here, so I lean over her and open the window.

“You think ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’ is a bad thing to sing in Oklahoma?” Coralee’s been practicing for a new pageant in July.

I shrug. Four months in the state isn’t long enough to give me an opinion.