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“What’s Destiny’s Child?” Aubree asks.
“Good lord, educate the children, Jackie.” Chelsey sighs.
“I’ll check in with you guys later.” I wave before signing off.
“Something smells good.” My father’s voice booms from the living room. “Are you in need of any taste testers?”
“You’ve already had a jelly doughnut this morning,” I say as he shuffles into the kitchen.
“That was supposed to be our secret, Penelope.”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell Mom, and if you’ll notice, Mom’s not here.”
“I’m actually noticing that nobody’s here. Where is everyone?”
“Strip club.” I shrug. “Nana’s really into that whole Thunder from Down Under group. I’m in charge of making the pie.”
He points at my laptop. “What’s that for?”
“YouTube,” I reply. “I can learn how to do anything on YouTube.”
“Oh, no, you can’t do that.” My father rolls up the sleeves of his tracksuit. “My mother knows exactly what her pie is supposed to taste like. It’s a recipe that’s been passed down for over one hundred years.”
I watch in semi-shock as my father collects flour, shortening, and vinegar. He asks me for a cup of ice water, an egg, and measuring spoons, commanding the kitchen as if he’s done it every day of his life. To be clear, he hasn’t. To be crystal clear, I’ve only ever seen my father make toast and the occasional sandwich.
“What’s going on?” Martin takes a seat at the breakfast bar. “I didn’t realize your dad moonlighted as a chef.”
“Not as a chef.” My father chuckles. “But when I was putting myself through school, I spent a little time working in a B and B as a baker.”
“Wait. If you’re a baker, then why does Grandma make the pies every year?” I ask.
“I might be the baker, but she’s the executive chef.” He scans the kitchen counter. “Penelope, can you get me the pastry blender?”
“Sure,” I say. “First, just tell me what a pastry blender is.”
“I’ve got it.” Martin strides across the kitchen and grabs a wire contraption with a wooden handle that looks like a torture device. “I’ll flour the countertop for you too.”
“Whoa now.” I hold up my hands. “You bake too? Is this some secret skill set that all engineers possess?”
“I grew up eating a lot of potpies.” Martin takes a handful of flour and dusts a small section of the counter with it. “The key to a good potpie is the crust.”
“I haven’t had a good potpie in years,” my father says. With a big smile on his face, he slices into the flour and shortening with the pastry cutter. “I’ve forgotten how good it feels to work with your hands.”
He beats an egg with a fork and drizzles it over the flour and shortening. With a spoon, he ladles the ice water and vinegar into the dough along with a teaspoon of salt. He stirs the dough by hand and then separates it into two balls. I watch the whole thing like it’s a carefully choreographed show, completely in awe. I’m not necessarily amazed that my father can make pie dough. I’m amazed that he seems to be enjoying doing it.
Right now, in this moment, he’s not Carter Banks, the CEO of United International Engineering. Right now, he’s just a dad on Thanksgiving. For the first time, possibly ever, he’s family first, not business.
“Stick these in a couple of plastic bags and put them in the freezer for fifteen minutes.” My father dries his hands on a hand towel. “Martin, I trust I can leave you in charge of the lemon filling? Penelope, you can handle the meringue?”
“Not without YouTube.”
“Looks like the entire weight of dessert rests on your shoulders, Martin,” my dad says, slightly out of breath. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. Try not to burn the place down.”
I consider taking a page out of Nana Rosie’s book and getting in a little pre-Thanksgiving nap too. I wash my hands and grab my mimosa.
“Good luck,” I say over my shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Martin asks.
