Mrs. Smith makes a mighty fine pie...

Maybe I was wrong. Seems I do have more to say after reading my friend Doug's Thanksgiving blog.
I've written about our Thanksgivings when I was young several times over the years. It was always at my mother's mother's house. Eating was made official when the words "and bless the little cook," were said. Everyone would crowd around that table array of meats and vegetables, potatoes and gravy, along with pies and cakes on a separate table. The moaning afterward accompanied by snores of napping elders added to the TV's football game.
Long after those days my kids would meet at my mother's house to feast on turkey, macaroni and cheese and a host of other delectble morsels, one being pumkin pie.
Pumkin pie is a favorite of my son's. One Thanksgiving my mother did not have time to bake her homemade pie and bought a Mrs. Smith's pumkin pie. Out of the wrapper and into the oven it went and came out a golden brown smelling of spices. It was placed amongst the other desserts.
After the meal my son jumped up and headed straight for the pie. He cut a large wedge and sat to enjoy.
"Oh man! This is really good this year," he said with the look of rapture on his face. While he savored each mouthful he would exclaim how much he was enjoying this pie.
"It has to be the best pumkin pie you have ever made."
His praise was ongoing. Each time he expounded on the wonderful pie my mother's smile faded ever so slightly.
He finished and cut another slice. Again, with each bite he would sing his praises. After the last bite he pushed his plate aside, looked at his granmother and said, "You have never made a better pumkin pie than that one. Did you do something different?" he asked finally.
She looked at him with sad eyes. Her response came after a moment of reflection. Finally, speaking slowly she said, "It's a Mrs. Smith's."
Derek's face turned bright crimson. Mentally his feet were backing up as he tried to say something.
"That was really good for a store bought pie but I bet next year yours will top that," he said defending himself.
"Why should I bother?" his grandmother said with tears rimming her eyes. "I wouldn't want to force one of my pies on you when it will be so easy to cook one out of a box."
He filled the air with apologies. If he'd had a shovel the apologies would have been waist high in seconds.
My mother finally laughed along with the rest of us. She got him. A rare thing with my son. he is hard to fool but his grandmother was more pleased to have told him it was Mrs. Smith's than to care about any hurt feelings. She thought it was hilarious. We all did and to this day have to assure him that the pumkin pie is not Mrs. Smith's whether it is or not. Each year his blush is just as bright.