Page 29 of Fall is Brewing

I don’t comment.

The slice is set down in front of us. The filling is a deeper amber than the others, pumpkin filling thick, set, and creamy.

I take a bite.

The crust shatters softly. Delicate and flaky. The filling is warm with cinnamon but not overdone. A hint of nutmeg. Maybe clove. The bite holds its shape instead of dissolving.

It’s not flashy. It’s reliable.

Willa chews slowly, eyes closing for just a fraction longer than they have with any other pie.

“She lost her husband in the spring,” someone whispers behind us. “She’s been baking nonstop.”

I don’t look back, but Willa does. Just briefly. Then she turns forward again, pen poised.

The room waits.

I take another bite, slower this time. The flavor isn’t complex. It’s familiar. It tastes like the kind of pie you eat at a kitchen table that’s seen decades of use. The kind that doesn’t need reinvention because it already knows exactly what it is.

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

My mom used to bake like this.

Not fancy. Not experimental. Just… right.

She’d hum while she worked. Flour on her jeans. Always a little too much cinnamon because she claimed “life’s too short for subtle spice.”

I swallow.

Willa writes something on the sheet.

I lean in slightly to read it.

Balanced. Confident. Clean finish. Excellent structure.

No qualifiers. No passive-aggressive deductions.

I add my own note beneath hers. Classic done well. No wasted effort.

Our scores land nearly identical.

Willa glances at the numbers. Then at me. Something shifts in her expression—not surprise. Recognition.

“You’re not docking it for lack of innovation?” she asks quietly.

“Why would I?” I reply.

“It’s safe.”

“It’s also delicious. Sometimes safe gets it right.”

The faintest flicker of understanding crosses her face.

We move on to the last pie, but the decision has already settled between us without needing to be spoken.

When Marcy returns, practically vibrating, Willa speaks first.

“Mabel Jensen’s pie is our winner.”