My blood boiled watching Lisa, my supposed best friend, soak up the applause at the county fair, clutching the prize for the apple pie she stole from my family.
All those smiles, all those questions about my Grandma Elsie’s secret spice—it was all a lie. She’d planned this.
But that thief celebrated too early, because our family’s unique spice blend wasn’t just a secret; it was about to be her very public undoing… I won’t let her get away with it, I’m going to ruin her life and for everyone to see.
Sweet Beginnings, Bitter Seeds: Grandma Elsie’s Gift
The scent of apples and cinnamon, that wasn’t just a smell in our house; it was a memory, a promise. Grandma Elsie’s Apple Pie.
It wasn’t just food. It was her laughter, her calloused hands kneading dough, the crinkle around her eyes when she’d present it, still warm from the oven. The recipe card, yellowed and soft at the edges, lived in a tin box Mark had helped me find at a flea market, tucked away like the treasure it was.
The real secret, though, wasn’t just the perfect balance of tart Granny Smiths and sweet Honeycrisps. It was “Elsie’s Enchanter,” her unique seven-spice blend, the one she’d grind herself with a mortar and pestle older than my mother. Cardamom, star anise, a whisper of something peppery I could never quite name… She’d only ever told me, “It’s the love, Sarah-beth, and a pinch of that.”
Mark poked his head into the kitchen, where I was staring at the Oakhaven Chronicle spread open on the table. “Big news, huh? The 75th Annual County Fair. You thinking what I’m thinking?” He grinned, already knowing the answer. Our daughter, Emily, a whirlwind of teenage angst and surprising sweetness, drifted in, phone glued to her ear. “Mom, is Lisa coming over later? She said something about needing your expert opinion on… vintage teacups?” Emily rolled her eyes, a gesture so perfectly her grandmother’s it made my heart ache a little.
“Probably, sweetie. And yes, Mark, I am absolutely thinking about that blue ribbon.” The baking contest at the Oakhaven Fair was legendary. I’d entered before, with other things, but never Grandma Elsie’s pie. It felt too sacred. This year, the 75th, felt significant.
The doorbell chimed, and before I could answer, Lisa breezed in, all bright colors and infectious energy, a walking sunbeam. “Smells like heaven in here already, Sar! Just thinking about pie?” Lisa, my best friend since kindergarten, the keeper of my childhood secrets, the godmother to Emily. She plopped onto a kitchen chair, her eyes landing on the Chronicle. “Oh, the Fair! Are you finally going to unleash the Elsie masterpiece on them?”
“It’s time,” I said, feeling a thrill. “This year, that blue ribbon has Grandma’s name on it.”
Lisa clapped her hands. “Amazing! You’ll sweep it. No competition. Say, what exactly is in that Enchanter stuff? Just curious, for the official entry description, you know. ‘Notes of exotic spice’ sounds so much better than ‘secret stuff.’” Her smile was wide, innocent. Just Lisa being Lisa, always full of ideas.
The Weight of Whispers
The following Saturday, I started my first practice run. The rhythmic thud of the rolling pin against the floured board, the crisp snap of apples under the knife – these were familiar comforts.
Emily wandered in, snagged a slice of apple, and offered, “Smells like victory, Mom.” Mark, sorting through a box of antique maps for his upcoming appraisal gig – his own quiet passion – just winked from the dining room.
Lisa, true to form, dropped by mid-afternoon, ostensibly to return a book. She hovered as I crimped the edges of the crust. “You know, Sarah, you really should bottle that Elsie’s Enchanter. Seriously. People would pay a fortune for that unique flavor. You could call it ‘Sarah’s Secret Spice Sensation!’” She laughed, a little too brightly.
“Grandma always said it was just for family,” I replied, carefully arranging the lattice top. It was an old line, one I’d used before, but today it felt… heavier. A small, unnameable discomfort prickled at the back of my neck. Lisa had always known the recipe was private.
“Oh, of course, family tradition, totally get it,” she said, peering closer at the unbaked pie. “But just for the description for the judges – is that a hint of mace I detect? Or is it nutmeg? It’s so complex.”
“It’s just… Elsie’s,” I said, a little more firmly than intended. I started telling her about the time Grandma Elsie tried to teach me the perfect crimp, and I ended up with something resembling a deflated football. Lisa laughed, the moment passed, but the tiny niggle remained. Later that evening, Mark found me staring into the spice cabinet. “Everything okay, hon? You seem a bit… preoccupied. Lisa seemed extra interested in the pie today.” He wasn’t accusing, just observing, the way he did with his old maps, noticing the faint water stain, the almost invisible tear.
“Just Fair nerves, I guess,” I mumbled, not quite believing it myself.
County Fair Fever
Oakhaven was practically vibrating with Fair anticipation. Banners fluttered from lampposts.
The hardware store had a pyramid of canning jars in the window. Even Mr. Henderson at Henderson’s Groceries, normally a man of few words, was offering unsolicited advice on jam-setting techniques. I picked up my official entry form from the town hall, the paper crisp and official in my hand. “Sarah Miller. Category: Fruit Pies. Entry: Grandma Elsie’s Apple Pie.” It felt good. Solid.
Lisa and I met for coffee at The Daily Grind. “So, have you decided what you’re entering?” I asked, stirring my latte.
She took a delicate bite of a scone. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe just some simple sugar cookies this year. Or that lemon-thyme shortbread? Honestly, after tasting your practice pie the other day, Sarah, anything I make will just look sad next to it.” She smiled, self-deprecating. “Though, for your pie, when you’re describing it for the judges’ notes, you know that one little aromatic kick it has right at the end? Is that allspice, or something more… floral? Like a specific type of peppercorn, maybe? Just trying to help you nail the description, make it irresistible.”
Her gaze was direct, earnest. Helpful. Why did it feel like an interrogation lamp? “It’s just the blend, Lisa. The way they work together.” I changed the subject, talking about Emily’s upcoming history test, the one I was supposed to be helping her study for instead of obsessing over pie. Lisa was understanding, full of sympathy for the trials of parenting a teenager.
Walking home, the autumn air crisp against my cheeks, I chided myself. I was being ridiculous. This was Lisa. My best friend. She was just excited for me, trying to be supportive in her own slightly over-caffeinated way. The unease was just pressure, the weight of expectation, the desire to do Grandma Elsie proud. Nothing more.
Crack in the Gilding
A few days later, Lisa was over. We were sitting in the sunroom, going over old photos for a ‘Then and Now’ display the Historical Society was planning for the Fair – my part-time gig as the local history columnist for the Chronicle often roped me into these things. Emily called from upstairs, a minor crisis involving a misplaced textbook. “Be right back,” I said, leaving Lisa with the box of photos and our half-empty mugs of tea.
It couldn’t have been more than five minutes.
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