Years ago I had the privilege of lunching at Miss
Belle’s tea room in Cameron, North Carolina.
For those of you who have not had the pleasure of visiting Cameron,
picture a small blink of a southern town in the image of To Kill A Mocking
Bird. Sand sidewalks wrap around
gingerbread houses turned into antique/treasure shops and Miss Belles, a rambling Victorian, held court over them
all. My lunch buddy and I looked over
the daily specials…corn chowder, yes please! tomato pie, yes please! curried Rice-a-Roni salad, sure why not! and homemade coconut cream pie, but of
course! We were so enthralled with every
bite that after a little cajoling, we left Miss Belle’s with the coveted
recipes of all four items.
Flash forward to the
present. For years now, I have paved my
way towards good will and friendship with care givers and administrative staff
at my parent’s retirement community by regularly sharing pieces of Miss
Belle’s coconut cream pie. I even go so
far as giving whole pies away when extra gratitude is merited. Fellow residents of my mother’s skilled
nursing floor also enjoy my pie. About
eight months ago, a new resident (a victim of Alzheimer’s) was having
difficulty settling in to her new (unasked for) living accommodations. Her name is Isabelle and although she may be
confused about her surroundings, she is spot on with her piano playing. She fills the dining room daily with
beautiful hymns and folk classics brightening everyone’s day and has become
instantly beloved. I always make it a
point to compliment and thank her for the gift she shares with us. One
afternoon, she was extremely agitated and begged for me to take her home and I
considered giving her a piece of pie to soothe her, but not knowing her dietary
restrictions thought best not.
This past week I
was standing near the nurse’s station on my mother’s floor and someone
mentioned my pie. I explained the recipe
came from Miss Belle’s Tea Room in Cameron (which closed several years ago) and
an Aide pointed out to me,‘Well you know, Isabelle used to be the mayor of
Cameron!' I looked at Isabelle….Isabelle…Miss
Belle…and discovered yes, she was the proprietor of the Tea Room and it
was her recipe I had been passing out all around her these past months. Needles to say, the next day I invited
Isabelle to my mother’s room for pie.
I held my breath
as she took her first bite. She looked
at me very seriously, shook her head and said ‘now that’s reeaaal good’ in her
low southern drawl. I was elated. As I walked her back to her room we chatted
about the Tea Room. I asked her if she
remembered making corn chowder and she said ‘Yes’. Tomato Pie?
Her response a little more pensive, ‘Maybe a long time ago’. Curried Rice-A-Roni Salad?
She looked at me as if I was absolutely batty…perhaps a fellow kitchen
worker had snuck that in.
Little did I know
how drastically my world would change after our visit to Miss Belles’. My vibrant mother would become a prisoner in
her body due to the cruel twists of Parkinson’s shortly thereafter and the Tea
Room would close due to Miss Belle’s failing mind. And now we find ourselves literally and
figuratively miles away from our former lives brought together as strangers,
but leaving as friends through the simple pleasure of sharing a piece of
pie.
