Free The Persian Pickle Club by Sandra Dallas

name again?”
    Instead of answering, I got up and began to clear the table.
    “Ella, isn’t that it?” Rita asked.
    “I’d rather be lonesome than live with Ben Crook. I can tell you that,” Grover said. “Remember him, Tom?”
    Before Tom could answer, I said, “Speaking of remembering, did you remember to save room for pie?”
    “I remember Queenie’s pies, all right. That’s for sure,” Tom said.
    I asked Rita to help me clear, and Tom and Grover started talking about the weather again.
    Rita and I took everything off the table and stacked it in the kitchen. Then I sent her back to the dining room while I got out the pie, stopping for just a minute to admire it, because it was the prettiest pie I’d ever made. The top crust was the palest shade of brown, sprinkled with sugar. A line of crimson oozed out of the vent I’d cut. I sliced it into four pieces, then whipped the cream and put it into a serving bowl with a big spoon and carried it all in.
    Tom gave me a big smile when I set his piece in front of him, and he told me even his mother’s pies weren’t as good as mine. I passed around the cream, and we all waited until everyone had spooned it out before we picked up our forks.
    As they cut their pie, the men discussed corn. Tom asked Grover how many bushels he figured he’d get from an acre, but instead of answering, Grover put up his finger to tell Tom to hold off a minute. He put a big bite of pie into his mouth before he said, “The way I see it—” He swallowed, stared at his pie a minute, then gave me a questioning look.
    Tom tried his pie, and got the very same expression on his face. He didn’t swallow, however. Instead, he pinched in his cheeks, keeping the pie in the middle of his mouth “Queen-ie …” Tom said, moving the food in his mouth from side to side.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “What kind of pie is this, anyway?” Grover asked.
    “Rhubarb,” I said. “Don’t you know rhubarb pie? I thought it was your favorite.”
    “It doesn’t taste like rhubarb,” Tom said. He finally swallowed what was in his mouth and made a face.
    “I picked it today, on the north side of the barn,” I said. Then I cut my own piece, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.
    Rita tasted hers and spit it out onto her plate.
    Grover studied what was left of his pie, moving the crust aside, then picking at the filling. “This is not rhubarb, Queenie.” Grover grinned at me. “It’s Swiss chard! You made a rhubarb pie out of red Swiss chard!”
    “Swiss chard!” Tom roared.
    “No such a thing!” I insisted.
    But Grover was right, and I turned as red as the chard while Grover laughed so hard, he almost fell over backward—which would have served him right, making fun of me like that. Tom tried to be polite and put his napkin over his mouth, but he sputtered behind it and shook his head while tears came into his eyes.
    Rita laughed, too, after she wiped the red off of her little white teeth. “You’re worse than me with the salt and sugar. Even I know the difference between rhubarb and Swiss chard.”
    “Well, they look a lot alike. They’re both red, and they have green leaves and stalks. …” There was no use explaining.
    “Honey, you won’t live this down for a hundred years,” Grover said, when he caught his breath, and I knew he was right.
    I was so embarrassed that I was glad to gather up the plates and escape into the kitchen. The three of them were still laughing when I took in the plate of cookies I’d made that afternoon and served them for dessert instead.
    I left the dishes in the sink, where I could do them the next morning, and after we’d eaten the cookies, I went out onto the porch with the others. Grover poured out some more liquor, then said, “I sure am glad I bought Tyrone’s bourbon instead of his rhubarb wine.” Tom and Rita laughed, but I gave Grover a poke, and he didn’t say anything more.
    We sat there a long time, talking and laughing, and I could tell