Flash back: It is Thanksgiving and you are nine years old. Everyone travels to your Aunt Bee’s house, she is your mother’s sister, the odd ball of the family. Aunt Bee lives three hours away by car, and on the eve of Thanksgiving you’re forced to ride in the back seat with your six-year-old sister who won’t stop crying. The heat in your family’s 1990 Jeep Pathfinder is faulty, either on full blast or not at all. Your mother is exhausted from working a double shift to afford the time off and your father is impatient, refusing to listen to her directions, insisting he knows the way. You’re hot and sweat rolls down your back and your wool sweater begins to itch, but you know if you complain the heat will be turned off and you will be forced to endure the cold. After what feels like five hours, you finally arrive at the Aunt Bees. After brief conversation, interrupted by the yipping of Muffy, Aunt Bee’s 14 year old snarly, snaggle toothed Bichon and rush to bed after being subjected to a sloppy, lipstick stained forehead kiss. You go to your temporary room, having been established on previous trips with sister’s hand in yours. The room itself is the size of a closet, and the musty twin sized bed takes up most of its surface area. You and your sister crawl under the sheets and close your eyes- pretending to be elsewhere. You lay in silence for several minutes, counting your breaths as a way to fall asleep and you hear a little whimper. It is your sister, crying- a pitiful squeak as she gulps for air between sobs. You embrace her in an attempt to comfort her, and console her the only way you know. “Sister, don’t cry You and I both know We came for the pie” Her crying stops immediately. Her orb like eyes gaze up at you and she understands you completely. Every year you’re forced to get in the jeep, travel to Aunt Bees, and endure a long weekend of slobber, dog growls from Muffy, musty sheets, and no TV. And every year you don’t complain to your parents, why? Because of the thanksgiving pumpkin pie. The pie to end all pies, the pie that in the minutes it takes to consume immediately heals all misgivings and provides you something to be truly thankful for. It is the memory of that pie, that lovely, rich, decadent pie that calms your sisters’ tears. It is the memory of that pie that gives you the strength to make it through the day tomorrow, through all of the awkward familial encounters, through all of the stressful moments, through Muffy biting your dad’s big toe, through the main dinner of soggy green beans, lumpy mashed potatoes, burnt stuffing, and dry turkey. Finally, after the table was cleared, the dishes washed, and the desert plates and forks brought out, everyone has resumed their places at the table. At this moment, your Aunt Bee, who had prepared the pie the day prior, clears her throat and waddles to the kitchen to the refrigerator, Muffy underfoot. You hear the refrigerator door open, a shuffle of condiment bottles and Tupperware filled with the leftover food, and, finally, close. You see your aunt beaming, holding the pie in her hands as she would a precious object, emerge through the doorway to the dining room. The reflection of the pie shines off of her glasses and everyone is silent in anticipation. Time feels like it is standing still, and that’s when you hear it. The jingle of Muffys collar echoes through the dining room, the ollective gaze of the family shifts from the pie to the floor, where the scruffy, rat-like dog bolts out from behind Aunt Bee knocking into her leg, the force of impact causes her to teeter and loose her balance. Time slows. Aunt Bee quickly reacts with corporal perceptiveness that you have never seen before, lightly landing with both feet down, posing like a gymnast about to do a flip, arms extended like a pinwheel. The pie soars in slow motion, arches through the air and concedes to the forces of gravity. Time stands still, and in that moment nobody and nothing moves. Even Muffy, the cause of all of this chaos stops in her tracks to watch the pie as it flips on 540 degrees on its axis, falling to the floor. The pie is crushed with the weight of expectation and this memory will persist to haunt you as one of your most painful throughout your adult life. I tell this story because just as the pie was crushed on that fateful Thanksgiving decades ago, so were my dreams when I opened the Amazon box containing my order of the Beistle 1-Pack Decorative Plush Pumpkin Pie Hat. Having no stuffing in the body of the plush pie, I found it crumpled upon arrival. And like that Thanksgiving decades ago, it was impossible to revive. It has taken me three days to muster up the strength to write this review, and I do so with a heavy heart. Do not order this product. Do not fall prey to the novelty of this festive head apparel.
