The screen door is open and a cool breeze rifles through the hot stuffiness. The kids and the birds are asleep. There is just the clicking of my two forks against the glass mixing bowl as I work lumps of shortening into the flour.

This is not my first pie. As a kid, I watched my mom roll pie crust between sheets of wax paper, and sometimes she’d give me a mound of dough and a small rolling pin. Now, I make pumpkin pies at Thanksgiving, an apple pie every fall and the occasional cherry pie for my dad, because it is his favorite. I’ve had my share of mishaps: too much water and the crust sticks to the wax paper; too little and it crumbles under the rolling pin. Once, it was so sticky that I wadded it up and threw it into the trash.

This pie is for a Father’s Day picnic, and I want it to be perfect.

——

Childbirth classes came in handy the day my husband became a father.

It had been a painfully slow, on-again, off-again labor, and I was relieved when I got to the pushing part. Finally, our first child, that mysterious little being who had insatiable cravings for chocolate milk and meatballs and always seemed to get hiccups in the middle of the night, was about to enter the world.

I pushed with all my might and Steve started breathing rhythmically, inhaling deeply through his nose, and exhaling through his mouth.

"Honey," I barked. "I’m not supposed to do that now!"

"I know," he said, "but I think I need to."

——

In the past nine years, we have not had many moments where deep breathing was required. There have been a few spills on the bike, too many toddler bumps to count, one white-knuckle trip to the ER.

I sprinkle cold water on the flour mixture and cut it with the forks until the dough starts to clump together. I dump it on a sheet of wax paper, spread another sheet on top, smush it down and roll it out, this way and that, until it forms a lopsided oval with ragged edges. I peel off the top layer of paper and flip the crust onto a pie plate, gently scraping it off the wax paper with a sharp knife, the way my mom taught me.

My husband doesn’t want much for Father’s Day, just extra hugs and a chance to wash the car with no interruptions. The least I can do is bake him a pie. I want it to be melt-in-your-mouth good: the perfect balance of sweet and sour; the flakiest crust for a dad who’s anything but.

——

A lot has happened in my family since the last Father’s Day picnic. A beloved aunt died on Father’s Day 2005, and the mood at the annual picnic was somber. It was overcast and chilly. The men stood around the grill while the women bustled back and forth with foam plates and plasticware and crockpots. People shook their heads and discussed funeral plans. Someone broke the tension by starting a half-serious conversation about where he’d want his ashes spread.

This year, it’s sunny and hot and the mood is light. Girl-cousins splash in the pool while the newest baby in the family sleeps in his carriage and the grandfather who recently beat cancer rocks gently in a swing with his wife.

Our family has lost one father this year, and he is with us, too. I think about his son and what he must be going through today. Then I think about my own dad, who is out of town for the weekend, and I give thanks that he is still with us even if he can’t be with us today.

When it’s time for dessert, everyone raves about the applesauce cake with the powdered sugar dusted on top. A few try my pie. My husband pronounces it "different." My mother-in-law says it needs "just a hair" more sugar. I taste it myself and decide it is neither terrible nor wonderful. The crust is a little too soggy; the filling a little too tart. It definitely needs more strawberries.

Driving home with a half-eaten pie, I realize that I am not disappointed that it didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped.

The pie may not have been perfect, but the day was.

———

Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.