Daddy Hutchens's Birthday Pies

"What do you mean, it burned down? Marcia, please! We have fifty people coming over in..." I checked my watch, "six hours. Even if half of them hate cake we need to serve twenty-five people. No, this is not okay. I don't think you understand. I am banned from buying Duncan Hines cake mix after the Ridgeview Tigers Softball Game Incident. Right, the time where I may have inadvertently turned to stove to approximately 500 degrees for approximately five hours."

I stared at my watch again. "Marcia. I'm begging you. This is for Daddy Hutchens. No, I'm pretty sure he doesn't eat Twinkies." The receiver on my cell phone was damp with sweat and I had to wipe it down while Marcia went on one of her "responsibility" tirades. Easy for her to say. Daddy Hutchens had lived with me and my family for three years now and my stepsister Marcia never did anything but attend family get-togethers once a year or so. "Think of something. It was your idea to order from First Rate Cakes in the first place!"

Nothing. No ideas. I was on my own to figure this one out. Marcia said she'd see us in a few hours.

I called every takeout place-- Chinese restaurant, Silverchrome Diner, old greasy-spoon mom-and-pop kitchen. Nothing. Not a cheesecake between them all.

It was starting to look like Twinkies.

I called Giuseppe's Pizza to see what dessert they might have. Still nothing. I nearly hung up... then I decided we'd have pie instead.

Marcia arrived in her soccer-mom van, ten-year-old triplets jostling each other like lizards in a pet shop aquarium, and helped me prepare.

"I can't think of a solution here, Marcia. You're the all-star mom who does Bake Sale cupcakes from scratch. Why is it my responsiblity? You're the one who made the order with the cake shop in the first place."

"Lucy, I can't bake for fifty people in my home oven."

"I hate it when you leave me in charge. I don't do this domestic stuff. I have a crazy idea but I'm not sure if Daddy Hutchens will like it."

Daddy Hutchens was what my eldest son called my father when he was a wee toddler, and all of the other children picked it up over the years; it had stuck. Marcia was my stepsister from his last marriage, and about 20 years younger than I.

My father was so old that it helped me to think of him as Daddy Hutchens... I could distance myself from his frailty a bit more readily. We were getting ready to celebrate a hundred years with him and while I often felt like I was beside myself, I was happy that he was hale and sturdy as could be expected, and still completely lucid if a bit delicate. We let him nap while we set up for the party, so he'd be full of vim and vigor when everyone arrived.

"What's the plan, then?" Marcia stood with her hand on her hip.

"I was thinking... maybe... " I hesitated. "Um... birthday pies."

"What kind of pies, exactly?"

"Well, you know, like... Giuseppe's pies."

"You want me to order Giuseppe's Pizza for Daddy Hutchens's birthday?" Marcia looked at me like I'd sprouted an extra nose.

"Oh, I've already ordered and paid with my credit card. I just need you to tip the driver!"



I ordered a full spread of everything Giuseppe's Pizza offered: plain, pepperoni, supreme, Hawaiian, and more, one of each specialty pizza and a few of each of the basics. Let them eat pie. I sent Marcia to the grocery store for ice cream, figuring there'd be full-scale rebellion if I didn't offer them something sweet for dessert. People started turning up an hour or so later-- my son Nathan and his kids in one vanload, my brother Bob, his wife Melba, and his kids and grandkids in three separate vehicles, my sister Andrea and her husband William and their dog Martin, my sister Melissa... soon the house was so full I didn't know what to do with myself so I waited by the door with a $20 bill in hand to tip the driver.

The pizza arrived and the driver looked at me oddly, but with as many cars as were in my lawn I suppose it could hardly be surprising that I'd ordered 13 pizzas. I had Marcia's boys Ned, Greg, and Ethan carry the boxes to the kitchen with me and we put a pepperoni pizza on a plate and pulled out the old question mark birthday candle, always good for a laugh. We put it into a tea light holder an put it on the table next to the pizza. Close enough for government work.

Daddy Hutchens came out from his bedroom when I knocked at his door-- eyes bright and grinning like a contented cat. He must have been awake for some time, I thought.

"Smells delicious out here, Lucille. Have you been cooking again?" He gave me a scandalous eyebrow wag and I waved him off with a laugh.

"No, no, that's your birthday cake."

"It would figure around here." He nodded. I lit the candle, we all sang, and Daddy Hutchens blew out the candle in one big gulping breath. We served each of the pizzas then. The kids were delighted to have something "cool" for birthday dinner. The parents and grandparents were relieved that the kids weren't overloaded with sugar and bouncing off the walls. It worked out nicely, I thought.



"Sorry we didn't get you a cake, Dad." I looked at him and tried to smile, but when all was said and done I was still kind of embarrassed. Next year, and there'd better be a next year... well, I'd take cooking lessons or something. But I would make the plans, not Marcia.

My father smiled at me and took another bite of pizza, chewed thoughtfully.

"Honestly, Lucille, I'm just glad to have another birthday to spend with you."