Nicholas examined the latticework on my apple and cherry pies through the oven window. “Those are works of art,” he said. “Where did you learn to make pies?”

“My mother. She was famous for her pies. Well, about as famous as you can get in Montezuma Creek. She won a blue ribbon for her cherry pie at the San Juan County fair. It was the only prize she ever won. She hung it in the living room next to my father’s bowling trophies.” I opened the oven and took out the pies, setting them on the counter to cool. “I don’t have a lot of happy memories from my childhood, but when she made pie, life was good. Everyone was happy. Even my father.”

“My mother always made pies at special times,” Nicholas said, “like the holidays or special family get-togethers. But my favorite part of pie making was after she was done and she would take the leftover dough, sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar, then bake it.”

“I know, right!” I said, clapping my hands. “Piecrust cookies. They’re the best. Which is why I made extra dough.”

“You’re going to make some tonight?” Nicholas asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “When the pies are done.”

“So, what fat do you use for your crust? Butter, shortening, or lard?”

“My mother was old school. She said that lard made the flakiest piecrust. She thought butter was lazy and shortening was a sin. She was religious about it.”

“People get a little fanatic about pies,” Nicholas said.

“I’m just getting ready to mix the pecan pie filling. Would you mind getting the pecans out of the oven? The mitts are right there.”

“On it,” he said.

While he brought the baking sheet out of the oven, I mixed the other ingredients.

“Where do you want the pecans?” he asked.

“Go ahead and pour them in here,” I said.

“The pecans rise to the top?”

“Like magic.”

In the end I made four regular-size pies for Thanksgiving as well as two tart-size pies—one pecan, one pumpkin—for us to eat with our dinner.

After the last of the pies were in the oven, we sat on the floor in the living room and ate our Chinese food with chopsticks. This was followed by the small pies for dessert and piecrust cookies as a post dessert with decaf coffee.

As I finished my coffee I lay back on the carpet. “I’m too full for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“No, we’re just stretching out our stomachs to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner,” Nicholas said.

“That’s a brilliant excuse for gluttony,” I said.

“My father used to say that,” he said. “He used to make a big breakfast Thanksgiving morning.”

“I bet your mother loved that.”

“Oh yeah, a dirty kitchen to start with.”

“Thanks for bringing us dinner,” I said. “What was the name of that restaurant?”