‘For this recipe, d’you think the judges will check if she’s alive?’

I nearly upended a tin of flour, giggling. Gramps could bake like nobody’s business, but more importantly, he was a born storyteller. On autumn weekends, we made cakes, tarts, cookies, doughnuts and last year, a fine tower of choux pastry for his neighbourhood’s annual baking contest. Gramps had me spellbound with tales around his delicious entries: his Devil’s Chocolate Cake was an offering to Lucifer himself; a delicate tart embodied an enchantment to rescue a kidnapped princess; and his choux tower was actually the tomb of a Snow Queen whose vanity led to a face-melting end, reflected in fleshy caramel strings around the croquembouche.

Sure, Gramps tended towards the macabre. But I loved baking with him, and it never sat right with me that the neighborhood didn’t have the same good taste in ever crowning him as the winner. I suspected he felt the same as his bakes got more elaborate every year. But he didn’t let on.

This year, Gramps was planning a pie. And not just any regular kind –

‘Meat. Sweet, young and juicy with a hint of rosemary. You get your crunch in the crust and then the rich filling…beats them fruit pies, that’s for sure.’

‘But Gramps, most people just like pumpkin or pecan around the holidays,’ I said, setting our ingredients on the counter. As a rule, only Gramps cooked. He didn’t want me burning myself, even if I insisted I was nine years old already.

‘Most people are duds. Don’t worry, birdie. Remember what it’s supposed to be?’ I grinned. We were presenting the judges with the birth of a fiendish demon. The crust would have a carved hunk with slits for her nose and red eyes.

The doorbell rang. 

’Peephole first!’

I looked. It was Mrs. Brentwood, a perennial judge in the neighbourhood contest. She was also a perennial pain in Gramps’s rear, because she never voted for him. She’d particularly struck a nerve last year as a swing when he was down by one vote for the big prize.

I told Gramps who it was, and he grimaced. ‘Let her in, birdie. She’s had a rough time lately.’

Mrs. Brentwood’s face was stained with tears when I opened the door. I’d heard why: last week, some creep had kidnapped her six month-old baby and the search parties turned out to be quite useless. No one had seen her infant since.

‘Oh, Belinda,’ Gramps said, offering Mrs. Brentwood a glass of water. She broke down as we ushered her to a chair. ‘I-I really only w-wanted some s-sugar!’ 

Gramps patted her hair. I could only hover awkwardly as Mrs. Brentwood wiped her nose.

‘God, I’m a mess. My sweet baby, what twisted clown could have taken such a harmless young thing?’ Mrs. Brentwood soaked Gramps’s linty sweater with her sobs. I winced at seeing strands of her hair caught in the fabric.

‘There now,’ Gramps cooed. ‘She’ll come to you soon.’ He gently prised her off so that she could gulp her water. ‘You’re being so good to me, Mark,’ Mrs. Brentwood remarked. ‘I’m sorry for all I’ve said to you over the years, about your bakes. I really do hope you win this time.’

‘Thanks, Belinda. Tell you what, why don’t you return when our pie is done? Give you a taste before the contest, take your mind off matters.’

Mrs. Brentwood thanked Gramps profusely, almost spilling the borrowed sugar. Grabbing the tissues I held out, she honked her way home. Gramps rolled up his sleeves. 

‘Right, enough waffling. To work!’

Gramps cut cold butter into a mound of flour. I handed him shortening, salt and ice water to mix into the clumpy dough; between us, the crust was done quickly. Gramps shaped the dough into a ball with flakes of fat and thrust it into his kitchen refrigerator to chill.

We then played card games for an hour, gorging on homemade candy. I lolled around in a sugar-induced stupor. 

‘Sit up! Need my filling out of the pantry, it’s been there for a while now.’

I scrambled up.

The pantry was a dark space to house Gramps’s magical recipes and ingredients – as well as a mini-fridge that saved him whenever his kitchen unit was full. But to me, it was a spooky chamber of hushed whispers where, as though by merely entering, you were making a deal with something ancient and unknowable.

I was scared of the dark, so I made for the mini-fridge with squinted eyes. Inside, there sat an oblong shape in a steel bowl. It smelled awfully funky; I gagged, recovered and looked again.

A pale pink lump of meat in cold saltwater. This seemed unlike anything I’d ever eaten; I couldn’t imagine Gramps ladling this – this organ into our beautiful pie.

Why did it look so alive?

I snatched up the bowl and kicked the fridge shut. This plunged me back into pitch-blackness, so I ran towards the kitchen – but skidded on something soft. ‘OH!’ I shrieked, terrified that the bowl was going to shower its half-breathing contents all over me.

Luckily, it held out, and I lunged for the door. Back in the hall, I hesitated – then looked back at the pantry entrance.

Spotlit by a single ray of light was a miniature woollen sock.

I carried the bowl into the kitchen. ‘All well, birdie?’ Gramps asked. ‘I heard you scream.’

‘Yes,’ I said, a little dazed. ‘Yes – uh, yes.’ I handed him the bowl.

Gramps boiled the pink lump in a light broth. I stared at the simmering pot. 

‘Can you get the oven – preheat to 375, please?’

‘Um. Sure.’ I turned the knob as Gramps specified. As the oven heated up, I watched him spoon clarified butter into a hot iron skillet, before frying some bacon bits. He set these aside to sear the pink lump.

A timer dinged. ‘Time to get the crust out!’ Gramps exclaimed cheerfully. I retrieved the chilled dough. Gramps rolled it out, crimping the leftover bits to pattern the top. 

I knew what was next.

‘Gramps,’ I said, the breath rushing through my breastbone. My lungs felt terribly full. He was slicing the pink lump into thin pieces. ‘Gramps, are you really going to put that in the pie?’

‘Why, yes.’ He seemed very far away now as he pressed pale slices into the bottom of the crust, layering them with fried bacon bits, red wine jus with pepper, and rosemary. ‘Why, yes. It all goes in.’

Gramps braided leftover dough into an exquisite weave around the pie, like the kind I had seen on wicker bassinets. He made me carve the nose and slit vents for the demon’s eyes.

Then he brushed egg wash over our demon pie, before popping it into the oven. ‘Be ready to eat in forty-five minutes!’ My grandfather twinkled at me.

He turned on the TV as I sank into an ottoman. The minutes ticked by. I could hear every sound, feel his every breath. The air was thick, too solid for me to say anything. I seemed to be asleep with my eyes open and aware.

‘Birdie? Birdie!’ I jumped. Gramps bent nose-to-nose with me in his bifocals.

‘Gramps! You scared me!’

‘Well, I’ve only been calling for the last five minutes! Did you fall in the pantry?’

I looked up at my grandfather, with his kindly smile and wonderful stories. I smelled the pie in the oven. It filled the house, rich and savoury.

‘No. Nothing happened. It was just really dark.’

Gramps shook his head fondly. ‘Oh, sweetheart. Now, come on – Mrs. Brentwood will be over shortly for that pre-tasting.’

I helped him heft the pie out of the oven with his flowery mitts. The meat bubbled behind the demon’s incensed slit-eyes. I stumbled back while Gramps set her on a wire rack to cool.

Soon, the doorbell chimed and he was welcoming Mrs. Brentwood into his warm home once more, now piquant with the aroma from his pie.

‘Oh, my!’ She exclaimed, sniffing the air. ‘That makes my mouth water!’

‘Well, you’re ready for a treat!’ Gramps said happily. He drove a serrated knife across the demon, wedging out a truly monstrous piece for Mrs. Brentwood. I observed them from Gramps’s open living area, unwilling to approach any closer.

Mrs. Brentwood took a bite of the pie. Her eyes rounded in pleasure. 

‘Mark! You’ve surpassed yourself!’ 

Gramps laughed, clapping his hands. ‘So you like it? Really like it?’

‘Well, you’ll certainly have my vote at our contest. You are making this, exactly the same?’ She asked, spearing another forkful.

Mrs. Brentwood was in better spirits already. Gramps had made her feel very special.

‘Definitely, I have everything I need,’ Gramps smiled. Mrs. Brentwood chuckled, popping her piece into her mouth. ‘Oh, Mark. This is too good. May I have more?’

‘Of course, Belinda.’ Gramps’s voice was soft. He watched her; she hardly noticed as she cut herself an even bigger slice of pie. ‘Eat how much ever you like. It’s all for you, every bit.’