Pies

My mother was a great pie maker. She made every kind imaginable from apple to blueberry to chocolate cream. Her crusts were flaky and tender and I used to love watching her roll out the dough on her kitchen counter. When I was young she didn't have much counter space so she used her kitchen table but later, after renovations to the old Victorian, she had a nice butcher block counter she put to good use when she made pies.

I don't ever remember her making only a pie. There were always at least two. Or, if she only needed one, she would use the leftover dough to make a cinnamon and sugar roll, which was divine. The smell of that baking in the oven was heavenly and coming in from school to that aroma is one of my favorite memories. It was a rare occasion, since she usually used all that dough for pies, so when it did happen we were very excited and that cinnamon roll didn't last more than a few minutes once we got to it. It was a great after-school snack.

Last week I was making a lemon meringue pie to take to a friends house. As I rolled out the dough for the crust, I smiled at the memories. I was using a pastry cloth, just the way Mom had always done, and a big wooden rolling pin like hers. I rolled from left to right, right to left, up, down, in every direction, in exactly the same way I had watched her do it thousands of times. My own children seem to prefer using store-bought crusts so I supposed this is one of those traditions that will disappear soon enough. I'm hoping one of my grandkids will want to learn how to make pie crust the old-fashioned way. And if that happens, they'll be given the handmade rolling pin that hangs by my backdoor. It was made by my great-great grandfather for my great-great grandmother on my father's side. Apparently pie-making was a family tradition on both sides, and anyone that wants to continue it will inherit that heirloom. I'm hoping someone will come through for me. And for Mom.