Kentucky Pie

Time was a few years back
not that long ago really...2001? 2002?
I was hosting parties.
Oh, not professionally
it wasn't my occupation.
But a Halloween here & Christmas there
& a random summer cookout.
House parties w/ friends & improv acquaintances,
me manning the grille, forking meat & veggie burger
(silly really, cooking on the back porch
w/ the landlord's porch directly above...
his kids shouting down that there was smoke!
dad! dad! dad! smoke!)
Mr. Domestic, that was me.
But it was fun.
Chopping all the carrots,
arranging the cherry tomatoes and crackers,
placing tabouli and hummus.
And baking pies.

K did most of the heavy lifting, so to speak.
She had the recipes & the cookeries &
plotted the convergent timelines--
this off the stove now!
that dip needs to be chilled for a couple hours!
I need to run to the store!
But me? I baked Kentucky Pie.
A gelatin & cream pie w/ just a hint of whisky...
and me not even a whisky drinker.
Just some random recipe I found
in one of mom's old Betty Crocker cookbooks.
A whim, truth be told.
A tricky whim.
I could never get the masses to mix just right,
either the crust soaked too much of the whiskey...
or the gelatin didn't settle before I grated the cooking chocolate,
little ant flecks of yum-yum...
or the whipped cream frosting deflated in the fridge...
I dunno.
Tried it multiple times, though.
If there was a shindig & I was hosting,
I'd crack open the flour-dusty cookbook
& see if I missed something.
Nope. Kentucky Pie still had the same ingredients.
Same measures and tablespoons and baking temperatures.

I'm reminded of all this last night,
as a guest...not a sponsor...not a MC...not nothing.
I'm sitting alone in a room-- the chill-out room
& it is exactly that, only room in house w/ AC.
I'm looking at books I don't own
and Hawaiian hula-skirted figurines...
cat paintings & unfamiliar furniture
(aside from the comfy chair I'm in).

The party noises are on the other side of a blanket,
blocking the room from the rest.
Couples babble & laugh. Musicians swap show dates.
Old Cambridge guys sprout statistical info
like some "Free-Speech Radio" guest.
A Siamese strays onto the front porch.

I put down my wine & I look at my watch.
Time to get going.