CHAPTER EIGHT

A Denominational Showdown in the Frozen Foods Aisle

ONE APRIL AFTERNOON I was sitting in Martha’s living room, thumbing through the most recent issue of Southern Living, and she asked me if I’d tried a certain brand of frozen apple pie.

When I told her I hadn’t, she explained why I should.

“Well,” she began, “this kind that I’m telling you about has the Pippin apples. The Pippin apples! They’re just so good and not too sweet, and you really do need to pick one up the next time you’re at the Walmarts because they can be sort of hard to find.

“I mean, do you know—DO YOU KNOW,” she continued, “that the last time our Walmarts got in a shipment of the Pippin pies, a friend of mine was there and she bought one and then she called me and she said, ‘Martha, you have to get to Walmarts right now because they have a new shipment of Pippin pies.’ So I put on some lipstick and hopped in my car and drove all the way to the Walmarts, and do you know—DO YOU KNOW, SOPHIE—that some women from one of the Baptist churches had come in and bought every last one of those pies—every last one!—to serve at their Family Night Supper? They bought EVERY LAST ONE!

“So,” she said with a laugh, “I hope you can find a Pippin pie at your Walmarts sometime soon because they surely are good. Not that I’ve had one recently or anything because, well, THE BAPTISTS GOT ALL OF OURS.”

The end.