Thoughts from a Thinking Girl

I have been wanting to learn how to make a good pie, with the right kind of buttery, smooth, crumbly, perfectly-browned crust that I know other people’s mothers make. As a mother myself, I have now come to understand that I am among the small minority of women who don’t know how to make pie, let alone the women who whip up a pie at a moment’s notice – “Oh, the huckleberries are in season” or, “Did you see? Five-pound flats of blueberries are on sale. I’ll make some pies tonight.”

My aunt has made pies for as long as I can remember; her Thanksgiving pies seemed earthy, made with whole wheat and a rich, almost sunburnt color. But my mother never made them. She made delicious cakes, brownies, and cookies – her Peanut Blossoms (the ones with Hershey’s kisses that melt ever-so-slightly in the middle of a flattened orb of sugared, peanut-butter smoothness) still weaken my knees. An invitation to have dinner at my mom’s is still greeted with the knowing glow that one will have a great meal, right through to a very tasty dessert. My best friend once took my mother’s holiday cookie recipe, which to date are still my favorite cookies, added food coloring and baked them just a touch crispier than the original version, and they arrived as a pile of green and purple dinosaur cookies which looked almost alien but the taste was spot on perfection; it was one of the most delightful holiday gifts I ever received. It should be no suprise that this friend also makes great homemade pies, whipping one up if she happens to have a lull in the afternoon. I guess I should also say it’s possible, despite my belief that she didn’t, that my mother made pies, and that I have unappreciatively lost those memories (along with aspects of road trips and other crucial family moments that I don’t have stored), and if that is the case, I’m sorry, Mom.

I do make some fabulous desserts – a bread pudding that, last time I made it to share with another family, there were only crumbs left on the pan; apple and pear and berry crisps from the simple (a recipe used by my son’s preschool teachers and then given to parents so we could continue to bake it and carry on the experience) to the Barefoot Contessa’s absolutely magical crisps. I’ve made tarts, even one with half pears artfully lined up on a rectangular tart crust; berry gratin’s thanks to Jacques Pépin. I’ve recently found a lemon bar recipe that was modified so as not to make you cringe to eat it, yet everyone around the table assumed it was the “original” recipe. I’ve got recipes for vegan zucchini bread and my dear friend Rick’s banana bread that are so moist and dense and chocolaty that they count as desserts and that’s how I serve them. I have frequently paired artisan chocolates with berries and crème fraiche; I have introduced my Aunt Marion’s pistachio torte to those who have never imagined the perfect balance of an exquisitely light dessert that has a neon green layer. My cousin recently showed me how to grill peaches, then top them with feta cheese and honey – they were outstanding and brought the novelty of eating something new. I have not yet claimed them as my own, but I intend to. So clearly, I have not gone without dessert, nor have I ever failed to carry my culinary weight when invited to bring dessert.

But no pies. And I love pie. I craved pies, not ice cream, during pregnancy. Thanks to my local Marie Calendar’s, I was able to eat blueberry, peach, apple and for me, the memory-laden decadence of lemon meringue. Lemon meringue pies were part of my monthly sojourns as a child with my folks and grandparents to a town even smaller than ours, and their lake-side fish joint that had, unexpectedly, a reputation for lemon meringue pies. This was part of a tradition, we thought nothing of taking a two-hour drive to eat dinner. Then drive two hours home. Fresh perch dinners, followed by the pie. Each time, the exact same food order. The exact same drive. We never even thought to try another restaurant, only Smith Brothers’ Fish Shanty. These moments hold a special groove in my neural circuitry, as the perfect combination of familial love and fried and sweet food.

But all this dessert history is now forever changed, as I have made my first pie. A fresh peach pie, with a homemade crust. My friend Nicole graciously offered to teach me how to make a pie, exactly the way I need to be taught. She brought over supplies and kitchenware to make two pies. I watched her make hers, then she observed me make mine, making gentle corrections along the way. She made an apple pie, and was reluctant to make peach – too much liquid, too many unforeseen factors that can change in the baking – but I pushed ahead in wanting to make something difficult. Go figure. And the funny thing is, pie is not Nicole’s favorite dessert – she just knows how to make pies and can make a masterful, delicious pie while distracted by the intensive demands of her one-year-old son.

It came out delicious – I was so happy and surprised and giddy. I took a picture of the pie; I made my husband take a picture of me and the pie. It was a simple, pure, deep pleasure to do something I’ve longed to try for so long, and then have it come out so well. Thank you, Nicole. I am no longer someone who doesn’t know how to make a pie.