So here’s the setup: It’s 1987. Frank, a convicted murderer, has escaped from a New Hampshire prison, and he’s holding Adele, a fragile divorcee, and her 12-year-old son, Henry, captive in their own house until they eat his chili.
Turns out it’s good chili — so good that it inspires Adele, whom the handsome convict has tied up very gently and tenderly, to reminisce about a conversation she and her son had about his sex education class. Seriously, it’s some good chili. And did I mention that Frank is handsome?
Later, Adele will free herself, and Frank — who must’ve been a big help around the prison — will start doing household chores. Changing the oil in the car, replacing the filter on the furnace, washing the floor and waxing it, teaching Henry (whom he calls Hank) to throw a baseball.
All of which is nothing next to what happens when a neighbor leaves a brimming bushel basket at their door. Soon he and Henry and Adele are all plunging hands into a big bowl of cut peaches — massaging them into submission, I guess.
At which point Frank says, “What I want to talk about is crust,” and there’s another montage of hands smushing sugar, flour and butter. Dough is rolled and piled high with filling, with half reserved for the moment when Frank guides Adele’s hands toward the pie plate and together, they, in his words, “put the roof on this house.”