Mrs Stoltzfus Bakes A Pie

One fine spring day Mrs Stoltzfus resolved to make a chicken pot pie for supper. She knew it would please her Wonderful Husband, and she also knew she would have to hurry or it would not have time to bake for an hour before 5:30 came.

So with a glance at the clock, she put the baby in her seat on the counter top and got out two mixing bowls.

Gabe and Jasmine begged to help her, and soon they, too, were instated upon the countertop like three little birds. She was about to commence mixing the crust when a wail from upstairs heralded Oscar waking from his nap. 

Putting the baby and her seat down onto the floor for safety, Mrs Stoltzfus hurried up to pluck the wailing toddler from his play pen. He snuggled endearingly on her shoulder as she carried him down the steps, and after getting him a cheese stick from the fridge, he too was sitting on the counter awaiting The Commencement of the Pie.

“My head hurts,” complained Jasmine, who couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Maybe you need to take a drink,” said Mrs Stoltzfus, hitting on the first thing that came to mind. “Sometimes if you don’t drink enough water you can get a headache.”

So they had drinks all around, and Mrs Stoltzfus began to wonder if the pie would ever get started.

She measured the flour, and Gabe handed her the salt, and soon she was mixing in the oil and milk, all the while singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider per Jasmine’s request.

She got out the parchment paper to roll out the dough and settled a squabble about who was able to see and who should sit where on the countertop.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, said Mrs Stoltzfus’s mind as she fielded the questions and rolled out the dough.

“Oscar, are you a goose?” Gabe asked, seemingly also suffering from not being able to think of anything to say.

“Yes,” said Oscar obligingly, so Gabe began to repeat “Oscar is a goose,” over and over as Oscar said, “Yes.”

It was time to start on the filling for the pot pie, but Gabe had put the mixing bowl on his face to hear the funny sound it made when he talked into it. 

She washed the bowl and drained the broth off the jar of canned chicken.

“I want to see it!” says Jasmine.

Mrs Stoltzfus held out the container of broth for Jasmine to see, then put it in the fridge, only to pull it back out so Oscar can see too, and then smell.

So they all took turns smelling the broth, and Mrs Stoltzfus fought a wave of panic. This was going much slower than she had expected.

She dumped the chicken in the bowl, added some frozen vegetables and a can of cream of chicken soup and gave everything a stir.

“Can I lick the spoon?” Gabe asks.

“Can I?” says Jasmine.

“Can I?” repeats Oscar several times, scared of being forgotten. It really is hard to be the third in line with only a Very Small Vocabulary at your command.

Mrs Stoltzfus gave everyone a spoon or spatula to lick and dumps the filling into the crust. She laid the top crust on and trims the edges.

The children contentedly lick their spoons. Soon she overhears Gabe say, “Oscar, do you want to taste my germs?” They trade spoons.

“Can I make my own little pie with the leftover pieces?” Gabe begs from his spot by the stove. His eagle eyes miss nothing.

“We’ll make something for everyone, Mrs Stoltzfus says quickly, to interrupt Jasmine and Oscar’s bid for a pie of their own as well.

Gabe handed her the salt again, and Mrs Stoltzfus sprinkled some on top. She crimped the crust and slid the pie into the oven with a sigh of relief. Supper would be late. But not too late.

The baby was crying in her seat on the floor, tired of not being involved. Oscar didn’t like how close Jasmine was sitting to him, and Gabe asked, “Mom, is the house taller than the world?”

By this time Mrs stoltzfus frankly felt as frazzled as if she had been shocked by an electrical outlet, so, since butter and cinnamon sugar had already been sprinkled on the leftover pie crust pieces and nothing was left to be done, she said No, the house was not taller than the sky and she thought it was time they all went Outside Immediately.

Motherhood is not for the faint of heart (or nerves). I wish you the best of Mothers Days!