Love of Pie

Summers of my youth meant week long vacations at my grandmother’s house. On her farm, we would roam with an overprotective German Shepherd. His soft fur and doggy smell were comforting and warm. We ate Italian ice for lunch and swam all afternoon until my grandfather grilled our dinner. My grandmother’s garden was full of flavors of the earth; oregano, rosemary, and dill. Her tomatoes tasted like sunshine and the sauce she made from them was fire itself. I learned to appreciate the earth and what it gave to us, from her. Not only were the flavors produced in her kitchen exceptional, but the experiences were burned into my memory. The one dish that stands out in my mind was her rhubarb pie.

After weeding the garden we would use an old knife to harvest the rhubarb. In the kitchen we would gather our ingredients; butter, sugar, sliced rhubarb, flour, milk, and vodka. I’ll be honest, I have no idea the measurements but I remember what we did. My grandma and I would take turns creaming the butter, sugar, and chopped rhubarb together. By the time we were done mixing it would be almost a custard consistency. We would let it sit while we mixed the flour, butter, sugar, and vodka to make the pie crust. When we had it shaped, we would brush the bottom with milk and add in the filling. The top would be a crosshatch of crust.

The smells that came from that baking pie would fill the house. The fakey crust and sour sweet filling were heaven. The chemical reaction of all those sugars created an amazing pie. The first bite exploded with flavor. If I was lucky, I would get vanilla ice cream to pair with a warm slice. When I was young, nothing was better than sitting on my grandma’s porch eating rhubarb pie. I would listen to my grandparents talk about when my mom and her siblings were young. I learned so much about my family history on that porch.

As an adult, a lot of things have changed. I stopped spending weeks there in my teens and then, after college, I moved across the state. My grandma got stage four breast cancer, which she survived but has crippled her. No more summer nights, no more baking, no more pie. She hardly has the strength to walk across a room, let alone make a pie. I’m so thankful for the memories I have, and I hope to impart them on my own child.

There are days when I think about how unfair that this woman has had the end of her life ruined by a disease. How much I will miss her when she finally goes. I also think about how wonderful it was to have that type of person in my life. It wasn’t the pie that was so special, exactly. The specialness came from being included and taught. I wasn’t dismissed but gathered and treated warmly. So many children miss out on having grandparents who love them. So many children miss out on baking with someone dear to them. If you take anything away from my story, take away the idea of generational sharing and love. Next time your child wants to help you, let them. Please send them to their grandparents’ when you can. Those special relationships and memories saved me in my darkest days. My other grandma was just as sweet and kind. We made chocolate chip cookies, which will always be the best cookies.

The memories of baked goods and being loved by my grandmas’ will weather my heart through any storm. If you are looking for a way to connect with your children or grandchildren, bake with them. Bake them a pie.