The day of the twenty-third annual pie-baking contest in Fulburn County, Indiana, is still vivid in the memory of Fulburn County residents, and probably will be for years to come.

That was the day Earl Parker put his fingers in the blender to see what would happen. When his wife Priscilla came in and saw the mess, he lied and said he gotten ketchup all over the counter while trying to open a bottle of Heinz, but she could tell he was lying, because there were little chunks of meat everywhere, making it more the consistency of pork and beans. Earl later swore he would never stick his fingers in the blender again, even if the doctors could sew them back on.

But mere domestic occurrences such as the one that took place in Earl and Priscilla Parker’s life that day pale in comparison to the excitement of the events at the twenty-third annual pie-baking contest.

Sheriff Homer Polk officiated the contest, six-pack in hand, with prune-faced Ruth McKimball, old Ed Coons, and little Bobby Green acting as judges. Most of the contestants baked their pies that morning, so that they would be hot and fresh when the judges sampled their slices.

Pick-up trucks full of families swarmed onto the gravel in the county fairgrounds parking lot that morning. Wiser folks walked to the contest, knowing full well that it’s almost impossible to find your pick-up in that parking lot, seeing as how they all look alike. Last year, Junior Evans and Peevey Ray Boon accidentally switched trucks, and you’d better believe that Mrs. Boon was not amused when she found Libby Evans’ black lace bra in the back of what Mrs. Boon thought was Peevey Ray’s truck.

At ten o’clock the contest was ready to begin. The first pie was the work of Hetty Boggs, who served on the church vestry, chamber of commerce and the PTA. Hetty liked to say she was delicate and bird-like, which was true if the bird in question’s a vulture. This particular pie was a recipe she’d made up herself: “Tomato Pie á la Boggs.” Ruth McKimball was first to try it, and her eyes crossed a little when she put it in her mouth. Ed Coons took a bite, chewed a little, moved it around in his mouth, chewed some more, moved it again, and finally swallowed. It was a fascinating process, as he had taken the liberty of removing his dentures before the proceedings. Little Bobby Green downed his entire slice in two bites and licked his lips afterwards.

After all three had sampled the tomato pie, they made notes on its taste and went on to try the next, which was titled simply, “Crust Pie,” and seemed to consist entirely of pie crust. Ruth choked a little on it, and Sheriff Polk had to go and get her a glass of water. Ed refused a second bite, declaring he’d already made his decision, but little Bobby Green wolfed down three slices, explaining that he wanted to “fully experience the flavor.”

The judges went right on down the line—worm pie, chocolate gooseberry pie, tomato pie á la Jones, tomato pie á la Kleindorf, frogs’ leg pie, tomato pie á la Bickford, filet of warthog pie, and tomato pie á la Porter, to name but a few.

Ruth remained reluctant toward trying each new pie, and little Bobby Green continued to snarf up two and three slices at a time, but soon whenever Ed took a piece, he would suddenly point at the landscape and yell, “Fire!” or “Look!” or “The Russians are coming!” When everybody turned to look, he would toss his slice over his shoulder and claim that he had tried the pie. This ruse worked well for seven or eight samples, until some of the more skeptical spectators began to get suspicious. Ed was given a severe reprimanding by Sheriff Polk, who firmly warned that from then on, Ed was not to claim any sightings of armed Russians, UFO’s, tornadoes, or the Loch Ness Monster. Least, not until after the contest. Ed licked his lips and mumbled he was sorry, and the judging continued.

It was just after the judges tried Ann Guernsey’s tree-bark pie á la mode (they all liked it, but Ruth got a splinter in her tongue) that Libby Evans brought in her surprise entry—160-proof beer and pretzel pie. This was judged as by far the best of the entries, and the judges ate the entire thing, eagerly licking their fingers afterwards. Ruth started walking a little funny for a while after that, and Ed kept belching. After he finished licking the pie plate, Little Bobby Green declared there wasn’t any point in trying the other entries. They had found the winner.

Hetty Boggs was aghast at this turn of events. She had been determined to win the contest, and even talked her husband, Billy, into slipping the sheriff twenty bucks and a six-pack that morning, to ensure the success of Tomato Pie á la Boggs. The very idea that a slut like Libby Evans could win this contest was absurd. Hetty pushed her big flowered hat forward on her head and went stomping off to find the traitor.

Sheriff Homer Polk had taken an emergency trip to the Port-A-John, thanks to the six-pack he’d been given by Billy Boggs earlier that morning, and was just on his way back to the contest when he met up with Hetty. “Howdy, Hetty,” he smiled, simultaneously tipping his cowboy hat and zipping his fly.

“Don’t you ‘howdy’ me, you bean-dip!” Hetty spat back. “Little Bobby Green just named Libby Evans the winner of the pie-baking contest!”

Sheriff Polk scratched his forehead and squinted up at the sun. “Well, isn’t that nice for Libby. I wonder what kind of pie she—”

Hetty started kicked the sheriff in the shins. “I was supposed to win this, you traitor! I was supposed to!”

Sheriff Polk danced around to avoid Hetty’s feet, showing a surprising depth of coordination for a man who had just finished six beers in under twenty minutes. “But—but Hetty! What are you talking about?”

Back at the grandstand, Libby Evans was smiling widely, displaying her tanned legs, skin-tight cutoff jeans and black high heels. She was perched on Ed Coons’ knee and throwing kisses to the crowd, acting like she’d just been elected Miss America or something.

Billy Boggs clapped his hand to his forehead. This reminded him of something. What was it he was supposed to have told the sheriff before the contest? Dadblame it, he’d forgotten that morning, so he’d simply handed Homer the six-pack and driven back to pick up Hetty—Hetty! Now, wait a minute, she had wanted to win the pie-baking contest! That’s what he was supposed to tell Sheriff Polk. And now Libby Evans was up there, ready to accept the coveted Fulburn County Pie-Baker’s Crown! Oh, shucks, Billy was really in trouble now. He looked around, but he didn’t see Hetty anywhere.

A few miles away, Earl and Priscilla Parker were driving home from the Fulburn County Hospital, where Earl had been given medical attention.

“I sure hope we can get to the fairgrounds in time to see who won the contest,” Earl said to his wife, who was driving.

“I don’t see why. You didn’t have time to take your pie over for the judging this morning,” Priscilla reminded him.

“Nope, but I gave it to Junior Evans’ sister last night, on account of she knew who to give it to at the contest.”

Priscilla considered this. “Well, then, do you think you won?”

“Step on it, and we’ll find out.”

Back by the Port-A-John, the Sheriff was being beaten black and blue by Hetty Boggs.

“You—you—horseradish! Beaverbrain!” Hetty screamed as she kicked and punched the somewhat debilitated Homer.

“I’m a lot of things, but not a beaverbrain,” he protested weakly, feeling bruised and nauseous.

“No, he isn’t!” called a voice from behind the Port-A-John.

Hetty stopped her attack and looked up. “Who’s that?”

Junior Evans, Libby’s brother, stepped out, holding his big hands in front of him. “Please don’t hit me.”

Hetty screamed and lunged for him. “Your wife won my crown!”

Junior jumped out of the way as gracefully as a six foot, four inch construction worker can, and pleaded with Hetty not to hurt him. “Sheriff! You’ve gotta listen to me! It’s Libby!”

Sheriff Polk he rolled over and vomited on the side of the Port-A-John.

Back at the grandstand, the crowd had been happy to cheer for Libby for the first thirty seconds or so, but now the wait for the sheriff, who had the crown in his truck, was becoming a long one, and everyone was getting a little anxious. Libby continued to pose on Ed’s knee (which was falling asleep), throwing kisses and declaring that she’d “just like to thank all the little people.”

The Parkers’ truck roared onto the parking lot, spitting gravel every where. Earl and Priscilla leaped out and ran up to the grandstand, where they could clearly see Libby and Ed.

Ruth McKimball, who until this point had been singing chorus after chorus of “Shine On Harvest Moon,” was beginning to sober up, so she saw the Parkers’ arrival. Ruth remembered Earl telling her earlier that week that he was going to enter the contest, but she couldn’t for the life of her recall trying his pie. Maybe Earl was going to make another last-minute entry.

Next to her, little Bobby Green sighed, bored. The pies that hadn’t been judged yet waited there on the table, their combined aromas wafting seductively beneath his twitching nostrils. “Well, as long as we’re waiting for the sheriff anyway, let’s have some of the other pies,” he suggested.

“No!” Libby jumped up from Ed’s lap. “You can’t do that! You said my pie won!”

“Well, it did,” Ruth interrupted, “but it doesn’t seem fair not to try them all.”

“Wait!” shouted Earl Parker, who had finally made it to the grandstand. “Did I win?”

In the crowd, Billy Boggs was getting more and more nervous. He had to find Hetty before she did some real damage. Pushing his way through the crowd, he went in the direction he’d last seen his wife go.

Back at the Port-A-John, Junior Evans bent over to shield his head with his hands as Hetty whapped him with her white vinyl handbag, which she apparently used to hold her collection of bricks. The sheriff lay on the ground, mumbling something about elephants.

Billy came around the Port-A-John just in time to see Junior receive a swift kick in the crotch from Hetty.

“Hetty! Leave that man alone!”

Hetty looked up from beneath her large flowered hat, which had tipped down over her eyes. “Billy, you wart hog, I didn’t win!” She held her purse over her head like a tomahawk and started running toward him.

Meanwhile, Libby was screaming at the sight of Earl and Priscilla. “You’re not supposed to be here! Go away!”

“Do you have an entry?” prune-faced Ruth McKimball called to Earl.

The crowd snapped back to attention, cheering and whistling and spitting on the ground. This infuriated Libby to no end, and she hollered at the spectators. “Shut up! I win! You hear me? I win, so shut your pie-holes! Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“What about my beer and pretzel pie? Did I win, or what?” Earl was clambering up onto the grandstand, with Priscilla helping.

Ed’s eyebrows flip-flopped. Little Bobby Green, who had already started in on the pies they hadn’t judged yet, dropped his fork. “Brff nnf prrtssl pah?” Prune-faced Ruth McKimball made a “hmmph!” noise and folded her arms across her chest.

“It’s my crown! You said it was mine!” Libby was jumping up and down and waving her arms around and screaming at just about everybody.

“Yes, beer and pretzel pie. I gave it to Libby last night on account of she knew who to give it to in the contest,” Earl explained. “And then I had to go to the hospital this morning and Priscilla and I got here just now.”

Old Ed Coons went to the microphone and announced, “Ladies and germs, we have a new winner.”

The crowd started cheering even louder than before. Started throwing things at each other, too.

Junior Evans came running back from the Port-A-John and made a flying leap onto the grandstand, where he grabbed the microphone right out of Ed’s hand. “Hetty Boggs has gone hog-wild crazy! She’s back by the Port-A-John, beating up Billy Boggs and the sheriff!”

Well, naturally the crowd just plain went nuts when they heard that. The ones who weren’t throwing things at each other ran back to the Port-A-John to watch the excitement and maybe get in a few swings themselves.

But Junior wasn’t done yet. “And not only that, but—but—my sister Libby’s trying to take credit for Earl Parker’s pie and win the contest!”

That, folks, was the last straw. Libby picked up a random pie and lobbed it at her brother’s head. He ducked, and it hit Ruth square in the face. Ruth licked the tomato off her lips and shook her finger at Libby. “You, missy, need to be taught a good lesson!” Bending forward faster than you would’ve thought the old goat could move, prune-faced Ruth McKimball lodged her fingers firmly in the belt-loops of Libby’s cutoffs and gave her a wedgie that Fulburn County would not soon forget. Libby Evans’s eyes crossed, her mouth puckered, her knees sagged, and suddenly she looked a lot like Ruth.

Loosening her hold on Libby’s shorts, Ruth leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. “Let that be a lesson to you, missy!”

From out of nowhere, another pastry hurtled through the air and landed on Libby’s behind. Shrieking, Libby grabbed another pie and threw it at random at the crowd. Then Old Ed Coons threw a pie at Junior, and Peevey Ray threw a pie at Alice Wilkins, and—oh, heck, pies just started flying everywhere. The only person who wasn’t throwing them was little Bobby Green, and he was trying to catch them in his mouth.

The crowd was hysterical. Why not? It was all good, clean fun. Somebody threw a live chicken at the grandstand. Ever the animal lover, Peevey Ray Boon caught it and declared he was going to call the NAACP about this, but Mrs. Boon corrected him. “Okay, then, I’ll call the ACLU!” The crowd started throwing even more stuff at the grandstand, and, well, that’s when things really got out of hand.

No one knows for sure who did what, or everything that went on after that point that day. It remains unexplained how that cow ended up in the Port-A-John, or where the grandstand disappeared to, or how those weird-looking char-marks in the neighboring wheat fields got there. (Old Ed Coons swears they were caused by a pie-shaped spaceship, but then, old Ed’s eyesight isn’t so good.) Suffice it to say, the Right Reverend Jimmy Joe Jones saw fit to have everybody re-baptized the morning after Fulburn County’s twenty-third annual pie-baking contest, and no one doubts that they needed it. And we all agree that Earl looks downright spiffy in that crown.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.