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He said: "I wish I was back in the front yard, squirting water on the lawn and flower beds, where no one would be shooting at me, and it was six o'clock and there was going to be fried chicken for supper and one of those deep-dish apple pies without any bottom to it, that you turn upside down and pour maple sirup on. That's what I wish."" "Always thinking of his stomach!" muttered the judge.
"Make us a good old-fashioned deep-dish pandowdy an' we'll all do our best to eat it!" "I suppose the 'jiners' get discouraged and fear they can't keep up to the standard. Not everybody is good enough to lead a self-denying Shaker life," said Susanna, pushing back the close sunbonnet from her warm face, which had grown younger, smoother, and sweeter in the last few weeks.
And then, at the very end, something terrible happened. Marguerite had brought in the pie'ce de re'sistance, the climactic dish toward which mother had built the whole meal the deep-dish peach pie, sugar-coated, fragrant and savory and placed it on the serving-table near the open window.
I imagine that then this couple, having accomplished this feat, regarded their trip to Europe as being rounded out and complete, and went home again, satisfied and rejoicing. Send them a postal card? Somebody should send them a deep-dish poison-pie! Looking on this desecration my companion and I grew vocal.
I know that she was considerably middle-aged, hard of hearing, and short of sight, and that when I tried to recall her name I could not think of anything but "Hunka-munka." Heaven knows why it must have expressed her, I suppose. But Hunka-munka Bella, I mean had resources. Her specialties were Kipling and deep-dish apple pie.
MacGill, after sampling the impromptu dessert, assured his hostess that her husband's eulogy had been only too moderate. He vowed he had never eaten such apple sauce. But Mrs. Merriam still looked bleak. She knew she could make a better deep-dish peach pie than Mrs. Allen could. And, then, to give the minister apple sauce and nabiscos! the first time he had eaten at her table in two months!
Philosophizing on the irrationality of old people, she proceeded to get enough scarcely-ripe peaches for a deep-dish pie. Being horribly afraid of climbing, she used the simple expedient of grasping the lower limbs of the tree and shaking down the fruit. "Missy!" called mother's voice from the dining room window. "That horse is slobbering all over the peaches!"
"No, you won't have time it's after five already, and I want to make a deep-dish peach pie. I hear Rev. MacGill's especially fond of it. You can take Gypsy home after supper. Now hurry up! I'm behindhand already." So Missy led Gypsy into the yard and took the pail her mother brought out to her. "The peaches aren't quite ripe," said mother, with a little worried pucker, "but they'll have to do.
That morning he had advocated lighter lunches and now he ordered nothing but English mutton chop, radishes, peas, deep-dish apple pie, a bit of cheese, and a pot of coffee with cream, adding, as he did invariably, "And uh Oh, and you might give me an order of French fried potatoes." When the chop came he vigorously peppered it and salted it.
I have a notion that probably the late Lucrezia Borgia did not start feeding her house guests on those deep-dish poison pies with which her name historically is associated until after she grew sensitive about the way folks dropping in at the Borgia home for a visit were sizing up her proportions on the bias, so to speak.
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