With the first tale of Penelope’s Pie Shop completed, it’s time to let Meg settle in for a bit before telling the second tale.  So while we wait for more pie and magical chalkboard frivolity, let’s take a trip to Coconut, Texas, where being a beauty queen isn’t an honor–it’s a requirement.

Becoming the Coconut Queen wasn’t just a hobby or something Essie May Baker did on the weekends.

It had been a full time job ever since she turned sixteen.

For two years, her mother had made sure every waking moment of her life was spent transforming herself into the perfect Coconut Queen.  It didn’t matter that the Coconut Queen of Coconut, East Texas, only reigned over a few thousand people.  To her mother, becoming the Coconut Queen was akin to Essie being crowned Miss America.  It was her mother’s whole life.

And now it was Essie’s.

After school, Essie was in various classes until nine at night.  On Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays, she danced and did aerobics and light toning to shape her figure.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she had a regimen of etiquette and special “beauty queen” classes that she suffered through; followed by cooking and baking classes with three little old ladies who looked like they had been cooking since fire had been invented.

On Saturdays, her nails were filed and her hair was coiffed.   Her feet were buffed to perfection and a orange glow was sprayed over her normally porcelain skin.  Her mother dragged her to dressmakers and tailors in search of the perfect Coconut Queen gown.

Essie was convinced if her mother could have had a Barbie Doll for a child, she would have.

And that wasn’t even the worse part.

At Sunday breakfast, Essie’s traditional plate of waffles and bacon would be whisked away and replaced with low-fat yogurt and blueberries.
“Essie May Baker, Coconut Queens do not eat waffles!” her mother would reprimand as she poured syrup over the stolen fluffy golden waffles.

“Mama, waffles won’t kill me,” Essie begged, reaching for another plate.  “Listen, the competition is still a month away.   Two little waffles won’t make a difference.”  Her mother slapped her hand away from the syrup bottle and pulled the tub of butter closer to her.

Shoving a fork full of waffles into her mouth, her mother shook a butter knife at her.  “Let me remind you that the third Coconut Queen proclamation states”—

“I know, I know,” Essie snapped, glaring at the blueberries in her yogurt.  Raising her voice in a high pitch, she mimicked, “A coconut queen is mighty fine—gorgeous and slim, with a body that’s simply divine.”  Pushing away the jiggly yogurt, she crossed her arms.  “Who wrote those stupid proclamations?”

Her mother’s jaw dropped, exposing butter laden waffle mush.  “Essie May Baker!  Do you want to blow your chances of becoming Queen?  The walls have ears, you know!  How dare you dishonor our cities’ fine founders like that.”

Rolling her eyes, Essie pushed away from the table.  “If they were so brilliant, they wouldn’t have named the town after a pie.”

Her mother gasped, syrup dripping off her chin.  “Essie May!  Must I remind you how Coconut began?”

“Here we go,” Essie muttered under her breath.  Her father, who hadn’t spoken at breakfast in two years since Essie’s mother went on her “mission,” as neighbors politely called it,; sunk lower in his seat behind the newspaper.

“Barbara, honey, I don’t think we…”
“John, I’m giving our daughter a lesson in her town’s history!”  Barbara snapped.  Turning to Essie, she pointed a piece of bacon at her.   “In 1876, this town was nothing but an outpost for a bunch of farms and ranches.  There was a post office and saloon, maybe a general store.”

“Were you there?” Essie asked, twitching her eyebrow.

“Watch your mouth!” her mother snapped.  “Anyway, a man named Jim Carney rode into town.  He had just returned from Central America, traveling up through Mexcio and on his way to his home in Louisiana.  When he arrived, he was ill from his travels.  A local family took him in and nursed him back to health for a month.  To repay them, he gave them a box full of coconuts he had been carrying home for his own wife.”

“Well, no one was sure what to do with the coconuts.  Finally, one of the local ranch wives got the bright idea to make a coconut cream pie for the annual Christmas dance.   It was such a hit that she got orders for a hundred more, so she ordered more coconuts.  Several of the women set up a little shop  downtown and began making everything from coconut pies to coconut cake to coconut cupcakes.”

“I know the rest of it,” Essie said tiredly.  “The town became so famous for it’s coconut pies and cakes that they named the town Coconut.  I mean, it’s the only beauty queen contest in the world that judges contestants on their coconut recipes.  It’s not that hard to figure out.”

Her mother pressed her lips together.  “Essie, I don’t think you realize what kind of competition this is.  Every 18-year-old girl from miles around would die to be Coconut Queen.  No Baker woman has ever not achieved the title.  I was queen, your grandmother was queen, her mother was queen.  Your big sister was queen.”
“Then it would stand to reason that I would make queen,” Essie replied.  “There’s only a couple thousand people in this town, and there’s only a few that are 18.  And only half of that are girls.”

She smirked at her mother.  “I”m not too worried.  I’ve got to go–I’m late for school.”

“But there’s something else you should know!”  her mother cried.

“Another proclamation?” Essie called back.

“Worse!” her mother cried.  “Queenie Lurche is running!  Same time as you.”
Essie stopped dead in the center of the living room.  Her mouth went dry.  Turning, she stared at her mother.  “What?”

“Queenie Lurche is running.”  Her mother’s face was pale.

“And now  you tell me?” Essie screeched.  “I’ve only got a month to prepare!  Mama, I can’t do this!  There’s no way!”

“What seems to be the problem?” her father asked, peering from around his newspaper.  “Queenie…her father is Larry, right?  Nice fellow.”

“He may be, but Queenie is a twit!” Barbara snapped.  “The girl is meaner than a one-eyed snake and her mother’s even worse!  They’ll stop at nothing to get the crown.  We were always lucky enough never to have a Lurche and Baker running in the same race.”

Essie tore her fingers through her hair.  “When Queenie’s big sister Fran ran, their mother put laxative in the other girl’s cupcakes and cakes they’d made for the cooking round.  The judges got so sick that when Fran’s Coconut medicine drops cured them, she won by default.  They didn’t even bother judging the swimsuit section!”

“And you know that’s their favorite part,” her mother muttered to her father.  “A bunch of dirty old men.  Barely notice the evening gown or talent portion, but go nuts over the cooking and swimsuit sections.”

“This is a disaster,” Essie muttered, nasuea rising up in her throat.  “Queenie went to France for culinary school last summer, for God’s sake.  You know she’ll ace the coconut creation part of the pagent.”

“Francine told me that some French designer did her gown,” her mother said, tearing off chunks of waffles as she tried to drown her sorrows with syrup.  “We’re doomed.”

Essie snapped her head up.  “No, we’re not.”  Her eyes twinkling, she took the waffles from her mother’s hands and took an indignant bite.  “Mrs. Louise.”

“Mrs. Lousie,” her mother breathed, her eyes widening.  “Of course!”

“Mrs. Louise?” her father asked, looking confused.

Both women nodded.  “Mrs. Louise.”

To be continued….

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  Tommorow we have a delightful new recipe that’s a true Southren favorite.  Then we’ve got a new Twirl and a weekend full of whimsical fun, along with a new creative woman!  Stay tuned!