The Great Grape Pie

A mystery is brewing in my basement.

It might not be a mystery to everyone who lives here, but it is becoming one to me.

Of course, I don't always know much of what goes on here, because while I'm at work, the rest of my family is living their lives--especially when school is out--here in the house without me, and I have to keep up solely by reading Facebook postings.

Yesterday, I learned via Facebook that Paul had the kids squeezing "the jelly from [the] eyes" of the grapes that had been hurriedly harvested from the back fence on the first cold day and had been sitting in a basket on the counter ever since.

We've lived in this house for ten years, with grapes living out their lives and marrying, having babies and affairs and dying without any notice from us. So why the grapes had to be saved was the first part of the mystery.

But the Facebook post that something was actually being done with them was probably good news, as the grapes had started throwing parties there on the counter without the permission of their landlords.

Paul asked for suggestions from his peeps on what to do with the grapes, and got several, but decided for whatever reason to post, "I think pie!"

Grape pie is, to me, somewhat of a mystery all by itself.

When I got home from work yesterday, Paul was, of course, at work, and the children informed me that the pie was not yet ready. This was odd, but I accepted it.

Today when I got home from work, my children informed me again that the pie was still not ready. Possibly tomorrow.

I am really wondering now what kind of grape pie takes three days to make.

"Daddy had to watch two really long movies today," I was told.

"We made the crust today!" I was reassured.

This is all complicated by the fact that we are now using what Paul sort of termed the service quarters kitchen downstairs one day when he was feeling isolated cooking down there. I won't quote what he actually said, because it's just not PC, but it had to do with what kind of "help" he was feeling like at the moment. This downstairs kitchen is, well, downstairs, down a hall, around the corner, and the third light on your right.

If we didn't need the stove in it--currently the only functioning stove in the house--none of us would ever venture in there at all.

Personally, I haven't been in there since I blew out the fire I caused by forgetting all about the eggs I was boiling. And threw away my mother's pan.

Maybe I'll go down and check out this mystery for myself. Or not. I think I'll let the mystery play itself out. It's providing an interesting thread in this section of the tapestry of our hilarious lives.