Mr. Owl's Pie: A Story for Kids

This is Ria. Welcome to Little Stories for Tiny People. Our story today is… Oh, I thought I might get farther before that happened. It seems I just received several emails and I am fairly certain I know who they are from. Let's see… Oh yes, the Studio Spiders, the ones who live in the uppermost corners of my tiny studio, and tap away on their tiny laptops. Dear Ria, it has come to our attention that you are not even planning to mention that this week marks the 10th anniversary of your frog cast. I'm pretty sure they mean podcast. Moving on, how dare you? How dare you not say a word about 10 whole years of stories? Huh, sincerely, the Studio Spiders. You know what, I'm not even sure any of this is true. Let me just do a little math. I started the podcast in August of 2015, which means…hold on, let me write this down. Okay… hmm… 2015 plus what equals 2025? I'm no mathematician, but it's true. Somehow, I don't know how. The podcast is 10 years old. Well, there you go, I mentioned it. Okay, happy? But 10 years or not, it's time for a story. It's called Mr. Owl's Pie. Take it away, Leo, Zach, and Ruby. Remember, there are no pictures. You have to imagine the pictures in your mind. You can imagine them however you want. Okay, here we go. Mr. Owl did not want pie. No, no, banish the thought. He wanted no pie. None, not even a bite. That's what he told everyone. That's what he told himself. Only, it wasn't true. The bald-faced truth was that after a whole month of following Dr. Owling's orders, Mr. Owl would have given his left wing for a morsel of mulberry rhubarb pie with cricket crumble. So when Mrs. Owl shared her plan to make that exact pie, it's for a charity bake sale tomorrow evening to benefit the Forest Food Bank. Mr. Owl could not stop his beak from watering. That's nice, dear, he said. From behind his newspaper, I'd usually make an extra pie. Mrs. Owl called from the kitchen, her head inside a cupboard, searching for a pan. But since you don't eat pie anymore, I'll just make the one. Mr. Owl did not trust himself to reply to that, so he said nothing, only grunted. By then, it was late into the night. Outside, Mr. and Mrs. Owl's cozy treehouse, the forest was dark beneath a slim crescent moon. Creatures crept through the underbrush and fluttered through the trees. It was prime time for owls, the woods teemed with scurrying little snacks. But Mr. and Mrs. Owl had already done their hunting for the evening. They were efficient in their golden years, and Mr. Owl had nothing to distract him from Mrs. Owl's flagrant pie baking. The whole thing might have been easier to deal with had Mr. Owl been slightly more honest at his doctor's appointment. Mr. Owl, do you have a bit of a sweet beak? Big, you're pardon? Do you frequently indulge in desserts? Definitely not. I certainly don't have a sweet beak. I see, because the symptoms you've related to me often point to an excess of sweets. Mr. Owl, do you have any sleep disturbances? Big, you're pardon? Snoring? Never. Tossing and turning? Maybe once a quarter, if I've not had enough exertion. Sleepwalking? Me? Sleepwalking? It's preposterous. Mr. Owl, I'd like you to adopt a modified diet for just two months. Stick to hunting critters. You can have stewed mice as a snack at home. Given that you do not have a fondness for sweets, that shouldn't be difficult, should it? Not at all. It'll be a piece of cake. Mr. Owl had strode out of Dr. Owling's tree office, convinced that every word out of his mouth was true. It's amazing how thoroughly an owl can deceive himself. At home, he'd related these events to his wife. She had been in the middle of knitting a hat for their youngest grand Owlet. As he'd told his story. And I said, well, I can tell you one thing. I don't have a sweet beak. She had slowly set down her knitting. Can you believe he asked if I sleepwalk? And focused solely on her husband. When he had finished. Only stewed mice in addition to hunting, he said. Which is fine. I hardly have anything else anyway. Mrs. Owl had stared at him. For several long moments, as if deciding something. At length, she said, okay then. And returned to her knitting. Mr. Owl had no problem at all sticking to his new diet. Stood mice. One of my favorite foods for the first three days. Then Matilda Owl's worth stopped by at the end of the day. Owl's worth stopped by at midnight one evening. What's this? Oh, these look scrumptious. Matilda, you must stop bringing us things. You really shouldn't have. I most certainly should have. And that's why I did. Where would I be now had you not found me after that nasty fall in my garden? A fox could have come along at any moment. Or a grizzly bear. Well, thank you. This is lovely. How is your wing doing? Mr. Owl had listened to this exchange from his rocking chair. Where he'd flipped through a current affairs magazine. He was relieved to hear Matilda was recovering well from the tumble she'd taken. But his mind kept returning to his wife's exclamation. Oh, these look scrumptious. His imagination ran wild with possibilities. Could be blackberry shrew cakes. Or chocolate grasshoppers. Or caramel coated rat tails. His tummy rumbled with each new thought. There was one dish that did not cross his mind as he sat in his rocking chair. Stood mice. Well, that Matilda Owl's worth is just a doll. Oh, Mr. Owl kept his eyes fixed on his magazine. He was achingly curious about the contents of the pastry box in Mrs. Owl's grasp. But he didn't dare admit it. Instead of revealing anything, she said, I'll just set these aside and bring them to the Grand Owls when I visit later tonight. Upon returning from the kitchen, easing into her own rocking chair, and picking up her knitting project, she nodded at Mr. Owl's magazine and said, anything interesting in the news? Mr. Owl had been staring at the magazine the whole time, but had barely retained any information. He swiftly glanced at the page. Uh, yes. It seems the South River has been completely overrun by chocolate grass. It was right in the middle of the word that he realized his mistake. Hoppers. Seeing Mrs. Owl's amused expression, he added, Kidding, of course. The river is overrun with regular old bland grasshoppers. Mrs. Owl nodded. Of course. In the intervening weeks, it seemed that opportunities to eat sweets presented themselves on a near constant basis. It reminded Mr. Owl of when a vicious storm had ripped through the woods years ago. He had been caught in its wrath in the middle of the night and had to fly through the trees, narrowly avoiding branches whipping in the Gale Force winds, while being pelted now and then with hailstones the size of walnuts, avoiding sweets, felt the same way. At a neighborhood picnic, Delilah Owlington kept passing by with a tray of candied snails, as if taunting Mr. Owl. At the market, it seemed as though every third booth was handing out some sort of beguiling treat wrapped in shimmery paper that caught the moonlight. It was an all-out assault. Mr. Owl had to steal himself each time he left the treehouse, and of course, he had told everyone that he didn't even like sweets, so he had to maintain his composure. He did a fair job of it, but by the time Mrs. Owl announced that she'd be baking his favorite type of pie, Mr. Owl's resolve had thinned. He remained fixed in his rocking chair, holding up his newspaper like a shield, as if to protect himself from even acknowledging the brazen dessert making taking place in the kitchen. But it was no use, because Mrs. Owl was a rather noisy cook. Now where did I put that measuring spoon? I'm certain it was right here in this drawer. Then came the unmistakable sounds of progress, the swish of a whisk, the gentle pour of wet ingredients into dry, the scrape of a spoon against the sides of a mixing bowl, the soft thumps of dough being kneaded on the counter. Mr. Owl had read the same news article 15 times and still had no idea what it was about. He had never made a pie in his life, but he knew what was coming. He'd have a brief respite while she prepared the fruit filling, as that would be a quiet process. But then, then the worst would come. She'd put the pie in the wood-fired oven, and, and the tantalizing aroma of mulberry rhubarb pie with cricket crumble would waft through the small treehouse. Mr. Owl's beak watered at the thought. No, no, no, no. By that time, it was late into the night. The usual forest sounds seemed to have faded away into silence, as the nighttime creatures headed home for bed. Not a whisper of a breeze drifted through the small window of the treehouse. The aroma of that pie will be inescapable. Mr. Owl thought to himself. He decided to go to bed early. That's the ticket. I'll sleep through the whole ordeal. Mr. Owl set down his newspaper on the small end table beside his chair, and snuck off to his hammock. He usually puttered around the treehouse for at least another hour until close to dawn, so he was very surprised to find himself drifting off quickly. Mrs. Owl must have been immersed in making the pie filling. Few sounds reached him from the kitchen. Unfortunately, the pie followed Mr. Owl into his dreams. He dreamt that he was once again in Dr. Owling's tree office. It looked nothing like Dr. Owling's tree office, but he was certain that's where he was. Dr. Owling had much better things to say this time. Mr. Owl, you know, I got to thinking. I was completely wrong about you. You don't need to give up sweets. In fact, for the next two months, I want you to eat nothing but pie. Make sure you don't eat any stewed mice. What do you think? Can you manage it? Uh, it might be difficult, but if you insist. Then his dream took Mr. Owl back to his treehouse, where he was greeted with a massive mulberry rhubarb pie with cricket crumble. Here you are, dear. It's all for you. Dream, Mrs. Owl said, presenting the pie to him with a flourish of her wing. I couldn't possibly. Dream, Mr. Owl protested, but he could possibly. In Mr. Owl's dream, he ate the entire pie in a single sitting. Oh, it was delicious. And just as he finished the final fork full, he woke up. Terror seized him for a full second. Then he chuckled. It was only a dream. I didn't eat an entire pie. Upon easing up to a sitting position in his hammock, Mr. Owl noticed several things. First, he noticed it was very bright in the treehouse. Must be just about noon. Usually he didn't wake until sundown. That's what I get for going to bed so early. He muttered. Next, he noticed that there was a lingering aroma of mulberry pie in the air. But it was not nearly as strong as he'd feared. Then he noticed that even with the faint aroma hitting his beak, it had absolutely no effect on him. His mouth didn't water. His tummy didn't rumble. I've grown out of this silly fixation on dessert. He told himself, shaking his head in wonder. But as he shook his head, impressed with his immense willpower, he caught sight of something that made the feathers on the back of his neck stand on end. No. There, clinging to the feathers of his midsection, was a morsel of something that looked suspiciously like cricket crumble. No. No, no. That banished the thought. Things worsened considerably when he surveyed the rest of himself. In the morning light, he could see everything with dreadful clarity. Crumbs of flaky pie crust, bits of rhubarb, dark red berry stains. Oh dear. Dear, what time is it? Mr. Owl nearly leapt in the air at the sound of Mrs. Owl's sleepy voice. Thankfully, she was turned away from him in her hammock. Uh, it's the middle of the day, sweetheart. Go go back to sleep. All right. Mr. Owl held his breath for what felt like days, then silently crept out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. But it was a dream. Mr. Owl whispered as he stared down at the empty pie pan. It was only a dream, wasn't it? There is nothing left, not a speck of mulberry, not a flake of crust. It was gone. Even the fork, his apparent accomplice in the crime, sat in the pie pan, licked clean. Crumbs all over his feathers, pie missing, fitful night's sleep. And there was one last piece of irrefutable evidence. Mr. Owl's stomach was inexplicably full. There is no denying it. He had eaten all of the pie. And he remembered precisely none of it. Mr. Owl, do you have any sleep disturbances? Hmm. Hmm. It is interesting how different parts of one's mind seem to wake up at different speeds, as if the mind is a shop with different rooms that a shopkeeper wanders through, lighting up one by one, readying for the day's business. As the last light came on in Mr. Owl's head, he remembered why his wife had made the pie in the first place. It's for a charity bake sale tomorrow evening to benefit the Forest Food Bank. That's when the reality of what he'd done hit him with full force. He disbared. This is a catastrophe. What am I going to do now? For all of ten seconds, because you do not get to be a wise old grandfather Owl without being calm under pressure. Mr. Owl shook out his feathers, puffed out his chest, stood up straight, and devised a plan. He was astonished to find a recipe book in one of the upper cupboards. He had looked for it half-heartedly, believing it was a fool's errand, given that his wife preferred to follow her own flights of whimsy, rather than bulleted instructions set down in a book. But there it was, an old, weathered brick of a thing, with pages so thin, Mr. Owl immediately adopted a light touch as he flipped through them to the section devoted to desserts. Dragonfly tarts, lime mousse with ant sprinkles. Mr. Owl turned the fragile pages, feeling his hopes become similarly fragile. What if she knows this pie recipe by heart? What if she invented it on the spot? What if, ah, Mr. Owl let out a small chuckle as he studied a page. Three-fourths of the way through the book. Huh. Mulberry rhubarb pie with cricket crumble. The mulberries were easy to find. Mr. Owl knew where all the best mulberry trees were located in the forest, as mice tended to congregate around them. And Mr. Owl was fond of mice. It took him twenty minutes to collect what he needed in a basket he held in his beak. He landed on a sturdy branch of a broad tree to go over his next steps. We have a sack of dried crickets at home. They always did. No Owl household was complete without them. We have plenty of pie-crossed ingredients in the pantry. So that left rhubarb. Hmm. Mr. Owl had no idea where Mrs. Owl acquired her rhubarb. He would have loved to ask her, but he definitely could not do that. By this time, it was early in the afternoon, and the woods were teeming with creatures, scurrying up trees and milling about. It was rare for Mr. Owl to be out at this hour, and he got a bit of a thrill at seeing such a different world in daylight. It would have been lovely to sit on the branch for an hour more, soaking up the curious sights. Especially the birds. Mr. Owl rarely had the chance to watch non-Owl birds. Now everywhere he looked, there were birds singing and a lighting on branches. A hummingbird zipped by in a blur. But Mr. Owl did not have time to fritter away on the branch. A half hour later, he was being swiped at by a broom. It's for charity. The lady, a human lady, likely the overseer of the farm Mr. Owl had decided to raid, apparently did not take kindly to Owl's trying to steal her crops. He was convinced that if she understood why he was taking the rhubarb, she'd be fine with it. She'd probably hand it over willingly. But he had no way of communicating it to her, and he was on a schedule. So Mr. Owl dodged the broom this way and that, snatched two bunches of rhubarb in his talons, roots and all, and flew away with the basket of mulberries. Swinging from his beak. He was utterly exhausted by the time he made it back to the treehouse. He crept into the kitchen, careful not to wake Mrs. Owl. He dumped his hard-won ingredients on the counter. He thought longingly of his hammock. If he went to sleep now, he'd get a few more hours of shut eye. He stared at the empty pie pan on the counter. It seemed to stare back at him. He got to work. It was a painstakingly slow process. Mr. Owl knew baking had to be precise, so he kept reading a line of the recipe, then rereading it to make sure he'd read it correctly the first time. He also kept yawning, which slowed him down further, and he couldn't believe how complicated it was to make the crust. It was all so intricate that he nearly gave up, but he couldn't give up. So he kept going and going. He pieced together a beautiful lattice pie crust, and eventually, somehow, on the edge of twilight, Mr. Owl did it. He got the job done. He fired up the oven and was just popping a pie inside when he stopped himself. Oh no. No, no, no. That's no good. Mr. Owl slapped his forehead with a wing. I forgot the cricket crumble. Mrs. Owl blinked her eyes open after sunset and sat up in her hammock. She noticed several things. First, she noticed the incredible potent aroma of mulberry rhubarb pie wafting to her beak. She couldn't believe the scent had lingered in the air so many hours after she'd finished baking. Next, she noticed her husband was not in his hammock. That was interesting. She was up early. She wanted to be up early to prep for the charity bake sale. Besides, Mr. Owl usually slept later than she did. Then, she noticed the snores coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Owl got up to investigate. Mr. Owl startled awake and thought perhaps he was being hit with the broom again. But no, no. He was simply being prodded on the shoulder with a wooden spoon by his wife. All right, all right, I'm awake. Mr. Owl said, lifting his head from the kitchen counter. The feathers on his face were matted and flattened. Mrs. Owl stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking from Mr. Owl to the empty pie pan on the counter. I can explain. Mr. Owl sputtered. Mrs. Owl raised her brow as if to say, I'm waiting. I, well, I have a sweet beak. Mr. Owl blurted. And apparently I sleepwalk. Mrs. Owl's brow lifted higher. And I ate the pie you baked. I ate the whole thing. I regret it terribly. And Mr. Owl opened the oven and pulled out a perfectly baked, golden brown, mulberry rhubarb pie with cricket crumble and set it, steaming on the counter. Then Mrs. Owl watched with wide eyes as he pulled out another. I made you two pies for the charity bake sale to make up for it. There was a moment of silence during which Mr. Owl took several deep breaths and Mrs. Owl studied the pies. A smile ripening on her face. Then she began to laugh. Oh, this is funny. I suppose it is funny. No, there's something else that's funny. Oh, do you remember when I said that usually I'd make two pies, but since you didn't eat pie anymore, I would just make the one. Mrs. Owl grinned rather mischievously. Yes. Well, Mrs. Owl said, opening the pantry and reaching for something. I decided I would make two pies. She turned around to reveal yet another mulberry rhubarb pie topped with cricket crumble. I thought you might decide to have some after all. Mrs. Owl had only signed up to bring one pie to the bake sale, but the organizer, Belinda Owlerfield, was more than happy to accept three. Why, thank you, Mrs. Owl, and thank you, Mr. Owl. These are just wonderful. And look at that lovely the bake sale was a fantastic success, raising hundreds of walnuts to benefit the forest food bank. As they flew home at dawn, Mr. Owl said, one thing I am wondering, where did you get your rhubarb? Mrs. Owl glanced at her husband as they navigated over a tree. From Matilda Owl's worth, she grows it in her garden just next door. She insisted I take some home after I helped her up from her fall. That's how I came up with the idea to make the pie in the first place. The Owl's cozy treehouse came into view just as the sun crept above the trees. Why, Mrs. Owl asked with a sly smile, where did you get your rhubarb? Mr. Owl winced, thinking of the broom. It's a long story, for another time. Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Owl landed on their branch side by side, and watched the sun rise over the forest before heading off to sleep. I hope you loved this story. Little Stories for Tiny People is written, performed, and produced by me, Rhea Pector. Thank you to my in-house tech director, Peter Kay, who has run my website and put my stories on the internet for all of you to enjoy for 10 years. Thank you to my own little Owls, Leo, Zach, and Ruby for the super important reminder message at the beginning. And a special thank you to you, my listeners, both the ones who've been here for years and those who found my stories just this afternoon. Thank you, as always, for listening in.