Pie Maven

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“We’re going to do things a bit differently this year,” I replied to my perplexed mother as we started the holiday pie baking. Once known as my side of the family’s “pie maven,” my mother looked at me and scoffed: “Well that’s not the way I usually do it.” 

The preceding year, Mom made a production out of passing on her tradition and technique of pie making. Assuming yet again that she was dying, she desired her stash of secrets not be taken to the grave so her sparkling pastry legacy might live on through me. Trouble was, she always thought she was dying, and her previous year’s pie was lackluster with soggy apple filling. Even my dad shared (privately with me) that Mom had perhaps lost her touch.

I was a young bride at the time and had recently met my husband’s two grandmothers; women who made hundreds of pies over their farming lifespans. When the topic of pie came up, I lamented over the previous year’s flop with Mom’s apple pie. The immediate question from these matrons was “What kind of apples did you use?” My response was quickly met with “Well there’s your problem. Gotta use either Jonathans or Winesaps.” I was a new cook and discerning cooking versus eating apples was a new seed in my repertoire. The other thing I learned from these two cooking stars was that Minute Tapioca –not flour as my mother swore by–  was the preferred additive to gel the fantastic flavor combinations into the sublime result I experienced firsthand that visit. Every relation I met that trip seemed to know all this insider information. Pie was a big deal in their parts, and these ladies were eager to share their time-tested tricks and support my efforts. I had even garnered a new crust recipe that was professed foolproof from an aunt. As one who routinely suffered from the anxiety of crust consternation, I was more than ready for “foolproof.”

I came home armed with knowledge and confidence and I tested the recommended fixes. What came out of my oven was an honest-to-goodness replica of what lit up my taste buds on the farm. It also filled me with dread, knowing that in her advancing years, Mom would not give up her tiara so easily.

The holidays circled back around, and Mom and I found ourselves facing off in the kitchen. I was ready. After her initial dismay of my recipe changes, she finally sat down by the counter, watched and listened. “Oh – I’ve never tried that,” or “Hmmm” would occasionally be uttered. I ditched her coveted Crisco oil crust in favor of Crisco sticks and a bit of vinegar and egg mixed with the flour. The cooking apples and the Minute Tapioca were folded into the mix of seasonings. Once loaded into the pie shell, I still fluted the crust with Mom’s three-finger crimping method I’d practiced on her pies as a child. After all, I had to keep something of hers in the mix. The result was a delicious confection that earned her nod of approval. She even conceded it was indeed a better pie. Relieved but worried that she might feel quite defeated at her presumed “loss of the crown,” I assured her I would pass on the art of pie-making  –something she instilled in me– to our girls when they were ready to learn. 

Years later a cousin from out east visited us. Pie was on the dessert menu. This particular cousin was quite verbal in her doubt that anyone could top HER pies, as she was the self-professed maven in her brood. Mom, still in attendance (despite her many earlier predictions to the contrary), sat grinning in smug silence.  Again, the tenets of pie making were discussed and I shared my technique. There were raised eyebrows and a few “Oh really’s?” It was sheer blasphemy that I now used a food processor to mix my crust. I explained how it was far more efficient in getting the perfect crumbly consistency that assured light, flaky results. The cousin watched skeptically yet intently as I mixed, filled, and baked my confection. A few forkfuls in, she and her husband both proclaimed it was a darn good pie and she had “met her match.” And once home, she promptly bought a food processor and sent us a beautiful crystal pie stand as a thank you. 

The art of pie commands a large portion of my cooking consciousness. At a vacation restaurant dinner, I chose a beautiful slice of pecan pie from the dessert cart. Our waitress also happened to be the restaurant owner. As she handed me the plate she proudly exclaimed: “I hope you enjoy it – I won a blue ribbon at the Texas State Fair with this one!” I was excited to stick my fork into such an monumental treat. The pie was indeed delightful. It also had an underlying richness that my brain rushed to identify. When the waitress came back around to check on us, I happily shared my enjoyment and asked: “Is there maple in this pie?”  Shocked, she looked at me and declared, “YES! And you’re the FIRST person to ever guess that!” As we conversed, she admitted that they had grown tired of the business and were selling the restaurant soon to retire south. 

Later, I spied her on her break and, again offering my compliments on her pie, asked, since they were retiring, if she’d be willing to share her recipe with me. With a wide smile, she wrote it down for me on the back of a restaurant logo coaster. I still pull that coaster out each year to make her pecan pie. Whether she realizes it or not, she’s still smiling alongside me in the kitchen when her handwritten thoughts spill off that coaster into my pie tin.

Prior generations of cooks were judged on cooking prowess as a measure of suitable homemaking or hostessing abilities. It was stiff competition in some parts. But pie making has never been an ego thing for me. Pies are handmade labors of love and I appreciate their imperfections. I enjoy baking them for the historical flavor they provide. And as I have experienced, they certainly foster community. While certainly not a pie maven, I am happy to have practiced this skill using the great tips and feedback I’ve received from accomplished bakers over the years.  

Both my husband and I come from pie-making stock. And despite her aging and subsequent loss of technique, what my mother did instill was the tradition and appreciation of the work that goes into such a confection. I have merely expanded on it over my years. Especially at holiday time, it’s the dessert of choice that my family and I love, enjoy, and deeply cherish.

Most recently, a farm cousin who makes hundreds of delicious pies each year for church fundraisers, admitted she now uses a crust mix. Perish the thought! Curious, I made a pie with the specified mix and –no surprise– it was great (not to mention a real timesaver). She also freezes her unbaked pies in their tins in advance –another time saver I admit piqued my inner skeptic. But after eating one of her previously frozen ones and realizing firsthand just how delicious it was, I became a solid fan. And so, new tips continue to go into the arsenal of technique. 

I’m sure my mom, grandmothers, and lovingly skeptical cousin –gone but never forgotten– are rolling in their graves. Or maybe, just maybe, they are winking in smug agreement of these new chapters in the family pastry annals. Should my daughters ever want to learn how to bake pies (fingers crossed), they will firmly latch on to efficiency factors. If it keeps the tradition alive, why the hell not?!

I have waxed poetic about simple, humble pie. That should tell you something. My hope is that somewhere in your recipe trove lies a similar splattered recipe card from family, friends, or even a favorite restaurant. If you haven’t baked a pie in a while, please do. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to feel love from your past. If you don’t have any such past, that’s okay too. You can be the first to birth an enduring tradition. Embrace it. And get several forks out ‘cuz you will indeed be making some loving connections around that plate.

Happy Thanksgiving!