Ode to Pie

   

     A friend told me about a place in Seattle called 'Pie Bar'.  It's a bar...with pie! 

        Just the thought of it makes my heart skip a beat.

        This is from Sarah Galvin's almost too-good-to-be-believed account of the place:

        "I had a view of...a row of fresh pies
        cooling, grandma-style, on a windowsill.
        The bar's flagstone walls and chandeliers
        create the atmosphere of a tiny pie
        castle."

         

        A pie castle!?  Can you even think of anything in the world as exciting-sounding as a pie castle?

        It's like Cinderella decided to elope with both a baker and a bartender and the threesome consummated their beautifully unholy union on an extended honeymoon in a magical land:  Booze and buttery crusts!  Glass slippers and taffeta flying willy-nilly off the turrets!  Coconut cream-filled moats, and merengue-breathing dragons.  What a delightful scene of debauchery!  

        This is the stuff of dreams!  

        Well, mine anyway.  In my dreams there's a pie shop on every corner and chocolate icebox pie is always on the menu. 

        This week I've been thinking about why I have such a soft spot in my heart, not to mention an empty spot in my stomach, for pie.  Sifting through my pie-connected memories I realize the best ones are old ones.  

        They all circle around The Lord's Acre.  This was a yearly fundraiser at our church in my tiny hometown.

        The congregation would make crafts, and gather donations.  The quilting bee ladies worked year round to create beautiful, intricate quilts.  The men hauled tables, chairs, and tents around town.  They mowed the lawns, spruced up the church, and set things up.  Volunteers patiently toted boxes around from place to place, then back to the original place, sometimes standing between the two while organizers debated the merits of the options.

        Items were either sold in booths, or auctioned off after lunch amid much laughter, cutting up, and shouted questions and answers about the provenance of various items.

        The highlight of the day was a Thanksgiving-style feast.  It seemed like people would arrive from three counties around to buy a ticket to enjoy this delicious meal.  In addition to turkey, dressing, and a vast array of fixin's, there were also pies. 

        Everywhere I went during the days leading up to the event someone was making pies.  Pies, pies, and more pies!  My mom made pies, both of my grandmothers made pies, pies were cooling on the counters at my friend's houses, and at the grocery store people were gathering ingredients, and swapping recipes and crust-making tips.

        All of these pies were duly brought to the church the morning of the event. 

        Then the United Methodist Women, bless them each and every one, would cut those pies.  They would carefully plate them, and put them on trays that were then placed on tall, tiered carts. 

        This was in the early 70's and back then pie was an uncomplicated treat.  It didn't mean 'fat grams', 'carbs', and 'diabetes'.  It meant family suppers, covered-dish dinners, and the first ripe peaches of the year.

        Throughout my childhood and teens, on the day of the event I was, typically, pressed into service as a gofer.  In between manning a booth, running for change, or locating the minister to come make a decision on something or other, I would keep gravitating back to the Fellowship Hall where the pies waited for the masses to arrive. 

        There was every kind of pie you can imagine:  traditional pies like apple, mincemeat, pumpkin, sweet potato, lemon chess, lemon merengue, coconut cream...  My Grandmother Stewart favored making raisin pies.  Grandmother Scott would make "whatever was to hand", meaning whatever was abundant in Grandaddy's garden, or whatever struck her fancy.  She could make anything delicious.  Mrs. Shiflet, my piano teacher (poor thing:  I never practiced), made chocolate pies...yummy dark-chocolate pies.  Mrs. Brown, the lady who took our lunch money at school, specialized in caramel pies.  Mrs. Ratliff made Osgood pies, and my mom tended to make fruit pies.  Also, there'd usually be some experimental pies made from new-fangled recipes clipped from the pages of McCall's or The Ladies Home Journal.

        All were homemade and included a liberal helping of pride and love.  (Really, they were probably made with a sense of resigned duty...but I like to imagine that love was the featured ingredient.)   For sure, they were all made by someone I had known most of my life.

        As I circled these towers of manna, I was usually in the company of one or more of the older gentlemen of the church.  They knew their pie and took their choice as seriously as I did.

        We'd discuss the matter:  "What are you going to have, young lady?", "I can't decide.  What are you going to have?"  They'd eye the pies carefully and call back into the kitchen to the ladies.  "Is this one butterscotch?  It looks tasty."  They'd ask about the ingredients, texture, how sweet the merengue was, etc.  Sometimes, when they wanted to stir up trouble, they'd ask if a store-bought crust was used.  (I've noticed through the years that pie will tend to bring out a sense of mischief in people.)

        Every interaction was rich, not only with the moment, but with the implications of dozens of back stories, many of which I knew.  Who ran what store in town.  Who farmed.  Who drove into the city to an office.  Whose cow got out last week.  Who taught school.  Who taught Sunday School.  Whose kids were in my class.  Who drove what car.  Who were friends of my brothers.  Who always teased me about my freckles...

        So, I suppose, for me the thought of pie is all tied up with happiness and a sense of belonging.  

        It takes me back to happy times when all four of my grandparents were alive and well and living within walking distance of me.  To those all-too-rare days when everyone was on their best behavior and my life seemed pretty perfect.  To days when all the people I cared about in the whole world could be found down at the church doing their part to make The Lord's Acre a success, and celebrating food, community, family, faith, and, of course:  pie!


What do you love about pie?  What's your favorite kind?