A Mother Pie of Gratitude

When I was in Junior High School, after my parents' divorce, I encountered a book by a Young Adult writer, named Helen Cavanagh, that was life-altering in the perspective it provided me, and I have shared its wisdom with a few close people. Now that most of my mothering days are behind me and will be reviewed by my progeny with credits and demerits, it feels like a good time to spread the message of the book to a wider audience. The message holds up over time and also in my personal experience.

The book's title is simply Honey, and the cover merely shows a girl with honey-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail with perfect glowing skin and a cute yellow t-shirt. I wanted to look like that girl, and its sweet title was an easy draw, so I checked it out of my English teacher's classroom library. Thank you, Mrs. Gordon, wherever you are.

As I read about Honey, the main character, though, I no longer thought of her as the model on the cover. I began to identify with the girl of the story, because her parents were also separated, which, in 1980, wasn't as commonplace as it is today. The details of Honey's life were very different from mine, but close enough that I could relate to some of her feelings. Yet I also felt relieved that I couldn't relate to all of them.

For instance, Honey's father has abandoned her mother and her, and is simply a vanished phantom throughout most of the book. Her mother is nearly comatose with depression, and Honey is obligated to care for herself, and sometimes both of them, through relationships she has formed with various people in their small town. We're introduced to the helpful and encouraging librarian, as well as a kind but nearly-blind widow who needs Honey's help with reading and small tasks. There is also a neighboring family with two sisters around Honey's age, and her boyfriend, Danny, who is long-suffering and devoted, despite Honey's mercurial mood swings.

The character who is the most intriguing, and who belongs to a literary trope, is the black maid to the neighbor family. She's designed to be intriguing, because-- like all solitary black individuals in a story peopled by white Americans-- she is the one who delivers the essential insight to Honey, and to the reader. With the legendary mystical wisdom which will serve the main character by being a bit exotic, a bit other, and a bit like Mary Poppins, she shows up in the story possessing a nearly magical competence and shrewdness, as well as stern and amusing personality quirks that will save the day. Helen Cavanagh does avoid a few traps in the character of ... wait for it ... Vanilla, by making her a young, politically-conscious college student with an unapologetic afro and a sassy impatience for her charges, which often includes Honey, who hangs around their large home and lawn with the two sisters who have everything Honey does not.

This benevolent family provides Honey with an escape from her own somewhat bleak existence on the other side of a forest of pine trees that separates the gracious lifestyle of one part of town with the working class desperation on the other. Honey will traverse this forest many times throughout the book and sometimes takes home hand-me-down clothing and leftovers from the large meals that Vanilla cooks for them. The mother of the girls is perfectly groomed and always welcoming to Honey, but remains at an elegant remove from whatever travails Honey and her mother are going through.

Toward the end of the book, Honey's absent father returns unexpectedly, her mother is suddenly happy again, as if nothing had happened or changed, and they announce to her that their family will be moving to another town. Honey is not having it. She presents herself to each of her friends as an orphan who needs to be taken in, and will work and be perfect in every way if only she can stay. One by one, the friends explain to her why this would not be good for her, nor for them. She racks up disappointment which begins to fuel resentment toward them and hatred toward herself. The final dashed hope comes when she discovers that the cast-off clothing of the neighbor girls did not come from their thoughtfulness, nor their mother's, but from Vanilla, who has been compassionate toward Honey, but not entirely sympathetic. After all, Honey does have parents, shelter, friends, and a future that could get better with time.

While I no longer have the physical book, and should probably get myself a replacement copy, I can paraphrase the advice that Vanilla gives to Honey (And yes, I, too, am now noticing that these names seem fitting for two showgirls talking backstage): Motherhood is too big of a job for one woman, and so it needs to be somewhat divided up, the way you would apportion a pie. Anyone who has nurtured you, even if they aren't all that maternal, is part of your Mother Pie. While your mother might make up the largest piece, offerings from fathers, other relatives, teachers, coaches, partners, friends, and even lovers (although they are young, her boyfriend Danny regards her tenderly and is patient with her flashes of coldness, even when she doesn't understand them, herself) are the ingredients that may be recognized for what they could give, rather than resented for what they could not.

There may be people who have Mother Pies made from lives that are smooth as cream. But that seems unlikely and maybe a little suspect. Even the neighbor girls must eventually grow from sheltered innocence to experience that will add texture and the necessity of the unexpected. The assortment that can make up a pie are people of all kinds: the fruits, the nuts, and the cheesy. While children can often teach us about life, I don't think they should be part of this pie. The effect on Honey, of parenting her mother, is what brings on her emotional storms of guilt, self-doubt, and anger, which hovers over a self-destructive bitterness.

I would be feeling a little uncertain about this whole Motherhood ideal, too. 

Not all of the people in your Mother Pie will necessarily agree on what you need, or how they feel about you or each other. Opinions and judgments won't always mix well to provide the perfect whole. There may be times when things bubble over, or some patches of crust fall away. It may not be a pie that wins a blue ribbon at the fair, but it can still be rich and filling, and most importantly, real. A fantasy of the perfect parent into which we fold all of our expectations doesn't serve us well.

And now, if you really want a mashup, your mother pie might be part of your higher power, but that can be a thought for another day. Also, I don't know of a book that has an extended metaphor for what makes up Fatherhood, but there probably is one, and that may be an interesting quest for anyone who wants to find it or create one.

Andy MacDowell singing a paen to the unique pleasure of pie, from the overtly saccharine 1996 movie, Michael

For the practical among us, who have had their sweet tooth tempted by this post, here is a good recipe for pie crust from Allrecipes.com:

1 1/4 cup flour
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup butter, chilled and diced
1/4 cup ice water

In a large bowl, combine flour and salt. Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in water, a tablespoon at a time, until mixture forms a ball. Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for 4 hours or overnight.

Roll dough out to fit a 9 inch pie plate. Place crust in pie plate. Press the dough evenly into the bottom and sides of the pie plate.

MY NOTE: As with most things, don't overwork, and if it's not handling well, start over.