Four slices. That's where we landed by about one o'clock on Friday, sitting on the tailgate of Caleb's truck in Braham with two plastic forks and the particular quiet that only comes after pie.
Braham Pie Day happens on the first Friday of August, and this year that was August 1. Braham is a small town about twenty minutes from us, and it's where Caleb grew up. His parents, Ron and Linda, still live just outside town, and the town proudly calls itself the Homemade Pie Capital of Minnesota. For one day each summer, it takes that title seriously.
Friday is one of my clinic days, so I traded shifts weeks ago. Some things you plan around.
How we do Pie Day
We have a system, and it's mostly Caleb's. We park at Ron and Linda's and walk in, because parking downtown on Pie Day is its own sport. We each get a coffee. Then we buy slices one at a time and split every one down the middle, so four slices means two each, which is the most pie a person can eat and still enjoy the drive home. Linda usually joins us for the first one, then goes off to find people she knows, which in Braham is everyone.
We eat on the tailgate, rank as we go and argue about the rankings for the rest of the afternoon.
This year's four, ranked
4. Blueberry. Good berries, good crust, but the filling had gone loose in the heat and ran right off the plate. On a cooler day this moves up. We don't hold the weather against the baker.
3. French silk. Rich and cold and gone in about ninety seconds. My pick, Caleb's least favorite. It's chocolate, so it's also the slice I'd be most nervous about anywhere near Hank, which is one more reason he didn't come.
2. Strawberry rhubarb. Linda's favorite, and very nearly mine. Tart enough to make you squint, with a lattice top that held together to the last bite. This is the one we took home whole.
1. Sour cream raisin. I didn't see this coming. Ron has ordered it every Pie Day for as long as Caleb can remember, and this year we finally listened to him. It was custardy and lightly spiced and not too sweet, and we both went quiet after the first bite. It's the winner, and I'll defend that.
Why the dog stayed home
People ask why Hank doesn't come along to things like this, since he's such an easygoing dog. A few reasons.
It was 86 degrees by noon, and Pie Day involves a lot of standing around on pavement. I wrote in June about our summer walking rules, and noon on asphalt breaks most of them.
It's crowded, and Hank, gentle as he is, gets overwhelmed in tight crowds. He doesn't growl. He just goes quiet and tries to get behind my legs, which is his way of saying this isn't fun.
And then there's the ground. A street festival is a buffet at dog height: dropped crust, foil pie tins, the end of somebody's bratwurst, a chicken bone from a lunch plate. Butter, sugar and chocolate are all things I'd rather he didn't vacuum up. Raisins are in a category of their own, since grapes and raisins can cause serious kidney trouble in some dogs, and the winner of the day was a slice full of them. I've taken enough of those phone calls at the front desk that I don't want to be the one making one.
So he stayed home in the living room with the window unit humming and a frozen Kong, and by every sign he slept the whole time.
We got back around three with a whole strawberry rhubarb pie in a box on my lap. Hank met us at the back door and sniffed the box with deep, serious interest. He got a carrot. The pie went on the top shelf of the fridge, behind the milk, which is where pies are safe in this house.
