“I’m done stirring,” I say to my grandma as she walks over to the counter. She looks at part of the almost finished delicacy crafted for Thanksgiving.

“Looks good,” she replies.

She pours the perfect chocolate pudding into the crust. The steamy chocolate sits in the hard crater of handmade crust on the counter and cools. I place the pie in the chilling fridge where it shivers. The cold preserves it from ending up in the rotten jumble of the garbage can.

“Let’s pull it out from the refrigerator,” I say.

We take it, and set it on the table next to the other desserts. It glares down its opponents. After the main course, the clock strikes time for dessert.

My family and I plant a plate in the position of our seat, and dive in for a dessert like a diver dunking into the water. The whip cream flops onto pie slices in volcanoes of fluff.

After the destructive damage, no left overs appear from the champion chocolate pie. My cousin and aunt comment, “Yum! That’s a really good pie.”

My grandma smiles seeing that I, out of everyone, loved it most.