Perfect Peach Pie

Tom McDougall was an artist. He had an eye for beauty and he knew it. His father was also an artist. His father's father was an artist. If truth be told, had Tom a time machine capable of revisiting the past, then Tom could have saw that the entire ancestral linage of McDougall men had all been artists. 

Tom paid attention to details, in fact he paid attention to everything. Tom was by no means a perfectionist; however, if Tom wanted something to be perfect it was. The only person who ever noticed his extreme meticulousness was his wife, Mrs. McDougall. 

Mrs. McDougall worked every day at a small diner several blocks away from their home. She was the best waitress the town had ever seen. Her mother was a waitress. Her mother's mother was a waitress. If Mrs. McDougall could have borrowed Tom's time machine... Well, you get the idea.

Tom loved Mrs. McDougall very much and she loved him just the same. Every day Tom would prepare and cook a meal for Mrs. McDougall, anticipating her return from work. And every day Mrs. McDougall would return home in the evening and notice how perfectly Tom had made the meal. 

One day was a day just the same as any other. Tom put on his coat and hat and followed Mrs. McDougall out of the door and into the street under the lamp post. They gave each other a kiss and parted to go their separate ways. But this day felt strange to Tom, he felt uneasy as he walked down the busy, noisy street to the market. Tom periodically looked over either of his shoulders to see if he was being followed. If truth be told, he was. 

When Tom arrived home he hung his hat and coat and watched a folded slip of paper fall to the floor. He reached down, picked it up, and then read it. He read the words quickly then slowly then repeated them several times out loud in the same manner. "I HAVE YOUR WIFE. YOU HAVE SOMETHING I WANT." 

At first, Tom was frightened and then slowly became increasingly angry at what he reasoned was some maniacal prank. He held the small slip over the waste basket and ripped it into sixteen perfectly identical pieces. 

That night as Tom sat in front of two steaming dishes of stewed zucchini parmigiana he heard four loud knocks on the front door. He noticed that they were exactly equal in volume and timing. Tom peered through the peephole and saw the figure of a thin woman who's face was covered by a large feathered black hat. He unlocked the door and cracked it slightly. But just as he did, the woman in the black hat came bursting into his home with such tremendous force that it sent him flying backwards over the parlor chair. 

He staggered to his feet and heard the woman rummaging in the dining room and then the kitchen. He would have called the police but was stopped dead in his tracks as the woman came barreling back through the parlor, out the door, and into the night. 

Tom frantically locked the door, he breathed heavily and wondered why what had just happened did. He returned to the kitchen and sat back down in front of what was now two cold stewed zucchini parmigiana dishes. 

His wife returned and apologized for being home later than usual. She explained that the diner had become unusually crowded this night and that she had to wait on a few extra tables.

Tom then explained to her what had happened prior to her arrival. He omitted the details of the strange woman's means of entry. 

The following day was precisely the same as the last; Tom kissed his wife at the lamp, made a trip to the market and heard four percussion knocks at the door. 

He peered through the peephole, this time the woman was wearing a large feathered red hat. This time he did not unlock the door, but instead threatened her that he would call the police. Tom eventually would have called the police but again was stopped dead in his tracks by the tone of the woman's voice. 

She harshly proposed to him an ultimatum. She explained its conditions, which if accepted, promised to make him and his wife very wealthy. If Tom chose to reject it, the woman said that Mrs. McDougall would never return to him. All Tom had to do, she said, was provide her with a certain recipe for a dish he had previously made. 

Tom was confused; he had no such recipe nor desire to become rich. Tom only feared for Mrs. McDougall's safety. 

He precociously spoke to the thin woman in the large feathered red hat. He politely asked he what was in the dish? She answered him hastily that its ingredients contained peaches, cream cheese, flour, spice, and some type of soft crust. 

He thought hard and remembered making several dessert type dishes that fit her description. He asked again with the same politeness if the dish was a type of strudel, danish, pie, or cake.

She again, now slightly less hastily, answered that it was a pie. 

Again, Tom thought hard and then remembered making a most delicious and decadent pie with a soft, almost irresistible moist crust, peaches and sweet cream cheese filling. 

Tom was in a predicament, he would have gladly given the woman his recipe if he had one. For Tom had never written a single recipe for any of his dish creations. 

Tom asked in the most polite possible way that the woman return the following evening to give him enough time to locate the peach pie recipe. She angrily accepted his request then left.

In the midst of his confrontation with the strange woman, Tom had forgotten to take the meatloaf out of the oven which had now filled the kitchen with a chocking gray smoke. The loaf had shrunk up into a little black plop in the center of the oven. 

His wife returned shortly and apologized to him for coming home again later than usual. She explained that a large family of sixteen were celebrating a birthday and walked into the diner without reservation. Since, she was the only waitress on staff at the time she had to take them.

Tom then explained to her that the strange woman had returned again, this time wearing a red hat. He told Mrs. McDougall about the woman's proposition and also deliberated with his wife about whether or not to contact the authorities concerning the matter. In the end, Mrs. McDougall convinced her husband that the woman sounded harmless enough and it shouldn't be necessary to contact anyone. 

The next day, Tom followed his typical routine to the market to pick up fresh ingredients needed for the peach pie. When he got home, he took off his hat and coat and hung them. He then washed his hands and the peaches. 

Tom cut the peaches into four perfect quarters removing the pits and setting them to the side in one perfect pile. He then prepared the filling using a cup of sugar which he measured perfectly. He mixed the sugar with the cream cheese he had removed from the package perfectly. He mixed the ingredients of flour and a package of vanilla pudding which he formed into a dough which he pressed into a perfectly even crust. 

He layered the remaining ingredients of quartered peaches and filling so perfectly that it would seem incomprehensible that the uncooked pie could ever be reproduced even to its current state. He sprinkled spice on top and baked the pie for precisely thirty five minutes. He quickly wrote down the recipe, so as not to forget any part of it and shoved it into a pocket. 

The woman returned again with the same four loud knocks on the door, this time wearing a large feathered white hat. 

He greeted her at the door with a smile and graciously handed her the cooled pie. 

As he searched his pockets to retrieve the recipe he had written, the woman lifted up her big white hat - it had been Mrs. McDougall all along! She exclaimed, "Mr. McDougall, I told you I'd do anything to have the recipe for this perfect peach pie!"

- THE END -