Guest Author - Kay Kopit

Part 4
“KAY! KAY! KAYEEEEEEEE,” my mother shrieked. “COME IN HERE! You were supposed to make a pie! A pumpkin pie!
“You never told me that!” I said and I started getting a stomach ache. (I had so many stomach aches in my youth I wished I could wear a heating pad under my clothes.)
“Why do you think I had you buy all the ingredients for a pumpkin pie if you weren’t going to make it? I don’t do pies! I do cakes!” My mother had already prepared a sumptuous chocolate up-side-down cake. It was true, her cakes were amazing, but I knew nothing of pie baking and was totally taken aback with her request. “Get busy, you still have time. Use the ready-made crust in the freezer.” Oh dear, I wasn’t a cook and didn’t feel comfortable in their kitchen. When I read the recipe I was a relieved to see that this pie would miraculously solidify in the refrigerator. It didn’t have to be baked.
“But do I have enough time?” I thought. Our guests were due to arrive in three hours. “Oh well, I’d better go for it.” Fortunately this seemed like an easy method to make a dessert. I carefully got out all the ingredients I needed, plus the proper utensils, and lined them up on the kitchen counter. I had to pile a few items on top of each other because my mother was using most of the counter space. I had learned in school to take my time and carefully read the measurements: 1 can pumpkin (15 oz.,) 4 oz. PHILADELPHIA Cream Cheese (softened,) 1 Tbsp. milk, 1 Tbsp. sugar, 1 tub (8 oz.) COOL WHIP Whipped Topping, and so on. The instructions were very clear but I was a nervous wreck. I did the best I could under the circumstances. When I was finished, I hesitantly balanced the pie plate and put it in the cold refrigerator nearby the turtles.
When our guests began arriving around 5:00 pm I happily served them hors d’oeuvres which consisted of cream cheese spread in celery, sprinkled with paprika, which I had made myself. At the time I thought that was a big deal and loved eating them as well. There was a five minute discourse as to the correct pronunciation of paprika. Was it “papreeka” or “papraka?” This drove me nuts. I couldn’t care less. Cee was in charge of the drinks which were mixed cocktails. The booze flowed freely and the noise level increased with each hour of the party. It was expected that my brother John and I would entertain the group of adults with our rehearsed vaudeville routine. There was a small space in the alcove between the living room and the dining room which we used as our stage. The two of us loved performing and this was our chance to get some attention from our family. What we didn’t expect was what we happened that night.
We put on our costumes and danced to jazzy music coming from our 78 record player. It was so much fun! I took myself quite seriously and thought I was the next Isadora Duncan. My brother wasn’t much of a dancer but he was called rubber legs for the way he could twist his torso like a pretzel. We always looked forward to these family recitals. All of a sudden Cee began mimicking what he had seen at Vaudevillians Theater: “Get off the stage,” he shouted. “You are done, you are a has-been.” At the same time he pretended to throw rotten eggs. “Take this you two. Take this!”
My mother at first looked surprised and then to my astonishment she too began shouting. “Here is a rotten tomato!” with a theatrical arm throwing gesture as if she were pitching a baseball. All the guests participated in this improvisation to our horror! We were devastated! Both John and I ran to our room crying while the group, slurring their words, practically in unison, called us spoiled sports. So much for partying and living it up with liquor!