The Key Lime Mystique

Key lime pie lovers are often a stubborn group who think that the pie is only delicious when made with the true Ping-Pong-ball-size Key limes, rather than from concentrate or the common Persian variety found in every supermarket. I believe that Key lime pie fundamentalists have never actually made the pie, and most likely couldn’t tell the difference. My friend Charles recently wrote a hilarious piece for F&W about trying to buy his father, a self-proclaimed Key lime connoisseur, a dwarf Key lime tree. You’ll have to wait for the November issue to read what happens, but in the end, it more or less proves my point.

On Saturday, I made my boyfriend’s father a birthday Key lime pie (his favorite) for the second year in a row. Last year, wringing juice from 30 of those nubby little Key limes, a half-teaspoon at a time, took me all the way through No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom album (perhaps the best cooking music, ever). This year, I opted to buy regular limes and spend that extra time having a Vietnamese banh mi sandwich with a friend. The lime squeezing this year took all of four limes and five minutes. And because I was too lazy to pull out a mini food processor, I beat a package of graham crackers with an ice cream scoop (I don’t have a meat pounder) until I had the requisite cup or so of crumbs for the crust.

I told my boyfriend not to blow my cover about the fake Key limes. “Let’s not lie,” I said. “But let’s only tell the truth if directly asked.”

His parents’ friends, a minister and his wife, quickly started in on how much they loved the pie. It was pretty tasty—I like to make the custard rather tart to balance out all of that cloying sweetened condensed milk, and my cavewoman method of crumb-making gave the crust a pleasantly rustic texture.

Then, inevitably, the minister’s wife exclaimed, “This is why you have to make the pie with Key limes! It’s just not the same otherwise. Now where did you manage to find the limes?”

I blushed and looked down, completely embarrassed, but it probably seemed like I was being coy.

“You don’t have to tell me if you want to keep it as your secret,” she said. Now, which is worse? Lying to a minister’s wife or debunking the Key lime myth and causing a potentially awkward moment?

After a few more seconds of discussion about the superiority of Key limes, I caved.

“I didn’t use Key limes this year,” I said.

Silence. Quizzical looks.

“I just used more regular lime juice than the recipe calls for. And I’m telling you this because I can’t let you think the pie is difficult to make. In fact, it’s really, really easy.”

“Well, it’s still delicious,” they said. Did I detect disappointment in their voices?

Afterward, I felt terrible. It’s probably how I will feel someday having to tell a kid why the tooth fairy forgot to come. But like my sister, who put out carrots for Santa Claus’s reindeers for years after my parents told her the truth, I realized that maybe Key lime believers don’t want to know that the fruit that reminds them of Floridian sunshine isn’t any more special than the limes found in the drab, everyday supermarket. And like my sister, they'll continue to insist that Key limes do have mystical powers. And hopefully, another piemaker will have enough sense to hold her tongue.