Pie

Making pies for my son's birthday last week was an introspective experience. As I put the ingredients into the bowl for the pie crust I began to think about how this same process had been carried out for generations before me. I find a real sense of satisfaction in doing something so basic - probably the same feeling that construction workers have in doing restoration work with old tools and materials. I was thinking about how I used to watch my mother and my grandmother roll out the dough for their pies, each with a unique way of crimping the edges, resulting in a trademark of sorts. Mom was an expert pie maker and she was famous for her flaky crusts. Mine have never quite met the standard she set, but they are a far better version than the tough, ready-made ones found in the refrigerator section of the local grocery store. And there's a good deal of satisfaction in creating something from scratch.

By my back door I have a small black rolling pin hanging on a leather strap. It was hand carved from ebony over a hundred years ago by my great-great grandfather and obviously well used by by great-great grandmother as the edges are all very smooth and the handles worn down. It's a far cry from the modern version I use, with nice handles that smoothly push the weight of it across the ball of dough. I've never been able to make a pie crust without glancing over at that rolling pin and thinking about the ancestors who inhabited this same space, busily making the pies to feed their families. It's not such a bad thing to be known for one's pies, is it?