only pie, and nevermore...

Yesterday I felt the need to make a pie.

An apple pie to be exact.

So I pulled out my handy-dandy 1950's "Meals Men Like" recipe book my mother gave me when I first moved from home. It's true; that's the title. At the time I wasn't sure if it was because it was a great cookbook, or my mother's way of saying, "You're on your own now. Find yourself a mate. This, my dear, is the way to do it."

Over the years this cookbook has lent itself to finding me many 'mates', even a husband. But it turns out the cookbook is the best cookbook. Basic meals done right. It even teaches you how to time it perfectly so you can have the kids washed, and yourself primped before your husband gets home from work for dinner.

Really.

It does.

Apparently the print is too small for me to read those words. I guess my feminist eyes can't seem to make sense of the random words placed into sentences. But I can attest to the great recipes inside. Fact: I still have the cookbook. I do not, however, have the husband.

On page 23 of this fine manual of cooking is the recipe for the "Best Ever Apple Pie". I've made it several times. You can tell the recipes that I like because of their not so clean pages. While gathering the ingredients I realized I was in need of more butter. I headed out to the grocery.

Going there is normally a mundane, routine event.

I drive several blocks east, cross a bridge, over the tracks, make a left hand turn...Bam, you're there.

Uneventful. Just like a trip to the grocery store should be.

But then I drove home...

One my way back to my house I came across three large black birds. Ravens. They were just sitting in the middle of the roadway. I slowed down as I approached, figuring they would fly away.

They did not.

I swerved around the cluster of feathered freaks looking at them out my drivers side window. Two continued about their business pecking at something invisible in the road. The third met my eye and continued to watch me, knowingly, as I drove by.

When I looked in my rear view mirror it had turned and was still watching me as I placed distance between me and them. I could see it like a Stephen King novel or movie, the car moving in slow motion while MOID (Music of Impending Doom) played in the background.

That was weird. It made the hair stand up on my neck and arms.

What would you do if something really bothered you? When your mind starts playing all kinds of horror scenarios because of something you just saw? Why, yes. Nancy likes to pull out her complete Borzoi Edition of Edgar Allen Poe, the amazing master freakazoid.

Many years ago, a friend gave me the complete works of Edgar. It's still one of my favorite gifts. 1423 pages of macabre poetry. It's beautiful and tormented and fabulous all in a messed up way. His words tweak something in my mind. His poetry single handedly made me decide on psychiatry as a major in college.

So after my encounter with the subtly, yet terrifying blackbirds, I made my pie and them poured myself a glass of wine. I lit a fire, grabbed a blanket and snuggled into the sofa for a good read. Of Poe. The Raven to be specific, it seemed rather fitting. And then my second favorite, The Tell-Tale Heart.

I slumbered off with the heat of the fireplace and the snoring of my big dog at my knees. And then my keen ears heard the sound. A faint 'Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock'. It was very quiet, yet I could hear it.

I asked my daughter in the other room, "Can you hear that? It's driving me crazy!"

"What?, she replied.

"That sound. Incessant ticking. You can't HEAR that?"

"No Mommy. There's no sound."

So I settled back in to read a few more pages. One of the cats came to laze on the comforter under my chin. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I looked around. Where could that damn sound be coming from?

I got up and followed the sound. Stealth like, hoping to catch whatever it was that was disturbing my restful evening. I went into the kitchen; the sound became fainter. Dining room? Non-existent. Living room; very strong.

I proceeded up the stairs to the second floor. As I ascended the sound dissipated. Quieter. No longer there. So I headed back down. As I neared the base of the stairs the sound increased. There it was, the southwest wall. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

I don't own a clock. Not a ticking clock. They drive me insane. The only clocks I own are digital. Or Swiss movement. So there IS no ticking sound. No tock.

But that's what I heard.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Pull it together Nancy. Those birds sure did make an impression. Geez, was the wine that potent? The story that great? What the hell's up with this clock noise?

I fluffed my pillows, poured a new claret and turned the page. And I read:

"Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came a rapping.

And so faintly you came a tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you. "Here I opened wide the door.,---

Darkness there and nothing more."

Those lines got me thinking about the actor last year at Cedar Point. Every year they put on a Hallow Weekends. They stay open until the last weekend in October. There are haunted houses to attend, they dress up the grounds in spooky attire and you can still ride all the coasters and rides. It's just a fun time had by all.

Last year at the glass blowing gallery they had a singular actor that recited Edgar Allen Poe. Not your normal fare at Cedar Point. But it was really well done. He was amazing. Freaky. Spooky. Talented and dark.

I was in love.

I wanted more.

I went to every performance. I thought it brilliant.

Usually those not riding coasters at Cedar Point are having their portraits sketched, or buying carved candles or branded leather. Not sitting in a dark glass blowing arena watching a performer. Totally. Freak. You. Out.

After each performance I wasn't sure whether to shake his hand or bolt for daylight. I shook his hand. I needed him to know that his performance wasn't wasted. On those that didn't know what Poe is/was. On his brilliant macabre. His tone. His dementia.

When I sat and read my Poe, I thought about those Ravens.

And then I thought of my pie. And my iPod. Cue song.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life..."

There's that damn noise again. "What the..."

I jumped up and rushed toward the sound. Here, out in the driveway, is my dog, with the pie pan licking it incessantly. Trying to get every last bit of the pie from the tin.

That's the sound.

And, there's my pie. Or what's left of it.

The sound is the damn tin hitting the tree with every lick and then bouncing back to the pavement.

My first thought? "Boy, is that dog going to have gas tonight" and "I'm going to have to make another pie." But he did seem to enjoy it. The cookbook is for "Meals Men Like". Notice it wasn't the female dog who gluttonously ate the pie.

Problem solved. I can chill.

But still, how do you explain the crows?

That still freaks me out...

:-)