Babe. Where Is My Pie?

I was 8 months pregnant with Haven, my first born.

I was in good health, happy, and excited about her impending arrival.

But I was ready to have this baby.

I didn't have any unconventional cravings while pregnant.

I pretty much enjoyed the same diet. And when I wanted something unhealthy that would hit the spot, I usually ate the same 'bad' things that I'd usually eat pre-pregnancy when enjoying a cheat day.

But one day, out of nowhere, while just minding my business, I was hit with an insatiable desire for sweet potato pie.

It was overwhelming.

I could taste the soft potatoes in my mouth, intermingled with cinnamon, nutmeg, all spice, and sugar, ALL layered on top of a nice, buttery, flaky crust.

Sitting there, I could taste it in my mind and my mouth.

So I called my mother and asked her if she'd make me a pie.

I explained that her grandchild wanted it.

My mom told me that she'd make me the pie, but that it would be later in the week on the weekend.

THAT SIMPLY WOULD NOT WORK FOR ME AND THE BABY.

I was craving the pie in the here and now.

So with full intentions to satisfy this craving, I left work that day and went straight to the grocery store.

I carefully went down each aisle gathering all of the ingredients that it would take to make my pie.

YES. I knew how to make sweet potato pie.

My Mom had shown me quite some time ago when discovering that they were my favorite.

I knew how to make them EXACTLY how I loved them.

I took my time selecting the potatoes, vanilla extract, pie shells, butter, pet milk, eggs, and spices, being careful not to forget anything, lest I end up having to wobble back to my car, and back to the store.

This was to be one trip for all of it.

I drove home, unloaded the groceries, and started making the pies, step by step by step.

Making sweet potato pies is easy, but a task.

Baking is a task.

There is an art to it. It's not quite like regular, every-day cooking.

You have to understand, I am not one who enjoys cooking, let alone baking.

I can do it. But I'm not enjoying myself while I am.

I'm thinking of so many other things I'd rather be doing the whole time that I'm cutting, measuring, and stirring.

But here I was, dead set on satisfying my craving, cutting, stirring, blending, sprinkling, sampling, and getting the pie mix just like I liked it.

An hour later I was staring at a fully cooked pie sitting on the stove, complete with the perfect shade of baked orange color, complete with the "sweet sweat" on top as it cooled.

I cut a hefty sized slice, kicked up my swollen feet on the couch, and devoured the piece of pie.

I could feel the dopamine in my brain responding to the joy of rewarded satisfaction.

THIS WAS IT.

This was desire completed.

It was hope fulfilled.

The next day while working, I thought about the pie the entire day.

I sat for hours thinking about how good that one slice of pie was, and how it would be even better chilled.

A cold piece of sweet potato pie is ten times better than a hot piece.

Throw in a cup of coffee or glass of milk, and it's a meal.

My mouth began watering every time it came to mind.

I told myself for eight straight hours:

"Shaunee, just wait until you get home. You have something wonderful waiting on you."

I'd gotten a call from my Aunt the night before. Somehow she'd found out that I made a pie, and had asked for a slice.

While sitting there working, thinking of my pie, she called to let me know that she was on her way to get it.

I'd cut her a slice that morning, wrapped it up, and put it in the fridge.

I called my husband and told him the following:

"Gayle, my Aunt is coming over to get a slice of sweet potato pie. I already cut her a piece. It's on the top shelf, wrapped in foil inside of the Kroger bag. She'll be there shortly to get it."

He told me okay. And that was the end of that.

While driving home from work, I thought about my pie.

As I pulled into the driveway, I thought about my pie.

As I walked into the house, I thought about my pie.