Key Lime Pie

I was five years old when my uncle introduced me to the seductive pleasures of a well-crafted Key Lime Pie. He was 30 and passionate about things like sailing, making money, smoking cigarettes, girls in mini-skirts and go-go boots – and Key Lime Pie. Contrary to the nature of most kids, I did not have a sweet tooth. Chocolate bored me; candy held no appeal – it was too hard, too sticky, too sweet, too gooey. But lemons and limes, sour green apples, cranberries in the form of a cake, pie or tart were all fair game. For me, it all came down to the thrill of the pucker.

I guess my uncle figured that lurking somewhere inside me was a Key Lime pie convert, because one day when we were all vacationing in Key Biscayne, he took me aside and asked me to help him make dessert. Perched on a high stool, I watched him slice through the petite limes and squeeze the juice into a glass bowl, wringing every drop of pale green liquid from each half until they were practically bone dry. Memory fails me through the next critical steps, but I do remember sitting at the counter, watching as he cut into his creation, examined it with one eyebrow cocked, popped a forkful into his mouth and pronounced it the “best goddamn pie ever.” One bite, and I, too, was gone, lost forever to the surprising bliss of this lime-condensed milk-egg yolk concoction.

In my twenties, I became a self-styled expert on the subtleties of this seemingly simple dessert. After my uncle’s death of a heart attack, I even took it upon myself to ensure that his Key Lime pie legacy lived on by creating my own recipe. The trick was to achieve the ideal balance of sweet and tart. Not enough lime juice, and the filling would taste like any other cloying, store-bought confection. Not enough condensed milk, and the tangy aftertaste could linger for days like a bad odor. I tried adding cream cheese, delicate fronds of lime zest, exotic sugars, even fat-free condensed milk. I topped it with whipped cream, crème fraiche, Cool Whip, plain yogurt mixed with powdered sugar, even meringue whipped up in a frenzy of pre-menstrual frustration. Then there was the crust, the bane of every Key Lime pie’s existence. The make-it-or-break-it factor. I subscribed to the unadulterated graham-cracker crust. No substitute would do. Graham cracker crumbs mixed with enough butter to hold it together and patted down carefully into a glass pie plate. For a while, Key Lime pie became my signature dessert, in much the same way other women are known for their fashion flare, I had pie panache. My pie was in demand, it was popular – people clamored for it. It was the dessert equivalent of a Top-40 hit.

But as fads grow old and tired (remember tube tops?), so did my obssession with Key Lime pie. I turned my back on it. I gave up desserts, even for the sake of politeness. I told myself I was over my addiction, that lemon tarts and Key Lime pies were history, along with a few old boyfriends. I got married, I worked 12 hours a day, went to parties, played tennis, traveled and did all those things that childless, married people do, not once regretting my decision to make a clean break from my Key Lime Pie past.

And then I got pregnant. The smell of toast sent me galloping to the bathroom; just being in the same room with broccoli or fish of any kind propelled me into paroxyms of nausea and vomiting. Nothing stayed down; nothing tasted good. Three months into the pregnancy, I was five pounds lighter and still only managing saltines and seltzer. Occasionally boiled plain noodles. Then one day, I went out to lunch with a friend, with the intention of ordering a Sprite and watching her eat something fabulous. On a lark, I opened the menu and there it was: Key Lime Pie. The first entry under Desserts. It practically jumped out and grabbed me by the throat. Somewhere in the background, maybe in my head, I heard my uncle’s voice describing to me how to make the perfect pie, and suddenly my mouth was twitching and fizzing, filling with saliva. Not because I was about to lose my Sprite all over the table, but because I was craving a taste of mouth-crimping, palate-teasing, swimming-in-a-sea-of-key lime pie. I ordered it, nibbled at it like a rabbit and made it through without so much as a rumble of queasiness.

And so began my Key Lime Pie Tour of Houston. Over the next six months, I sampled slices at more than 30 restaurants. I tried Oreo crusts and garden-variety pie crusts; pies with chocolate chips or orange peel or strawberries. Some were ethereal, others, like the piece with the consistency of week-old cheesecake, weren’t even worth a eulogy. But with every bite, I considered that, if there were a god and a heaven, then surely my uncle would be there, a gin and tonic in one hand, a girl on one knee and, on a plate, a wedge of his own homemade Key Lime pie to make the angels sing.