She brought it to a Christmas party, the pie, and she presented it as the luxury it turned out to be.
She held it out to me in both hands as though offering treasure, saying that it was her favourite pie. In a household shared with men, this peanut butter pie with home made vanilla pudding beneath and topped by the lightest meringue was a work of art too delicate for their taste; when she made it at home it was for herself, her own special treat.
But it struck me then that the pie was so much like her. She is a classic beauty in the Katherine Hepburn style; graceful and stunning, even her late --who knows--it is impossible to tell. Her long hair is white-gray now, dramatically drawn back from a widows peak that frames her face like a heart. Bold eyebrows arch over blue, observant, intelligent eyes. She holds her small frame like a dancer, straight and lithe.
She is quiet, but with a quick wit; yet orderly, sensible and wise.
I heard of her before I knew her years ago, from my friend Frances, whose best friend she is. Frances of the impeccable taste!
And through Frances all those years ago she came to cell group and her life became part of ours too. I will always remember her discovery of faith and her words, "I am so angry that no one told me this before. I would have made so many different choices..."
Today she brought copies of the recipe for the pie. Written, yes, in the most beautiful of penmanship. I can't believe I left it at work, but I will bring it home tomorrow, and share it here.
Yes, it made me think of how like her it is, Cynthia's Peanut Butter Pie.