Pie

 

PIE

Long ago, and way back when, I remember 1956 summer break with a pail in my green Raleigh bicycle basket filled with blackberries. The scratches on my hands and arms from prickly stems were worth the pain as juicy blackberries fell into my palms. Dropping in the can I had to taste test one or two berries every few minutes. They were a late July birthday present request from Mom. A card made with blackberry drawings using my colored pencils topped off the birthday gift.

As I watched, she seemed to dance around the kitchen like Ginger Rogers without Fred Astaire. I’m not sure I saw her feet touch the floor while gathering supplies. Preparing the pie dough, she whispered, “The secret to a flaky crust is extra Crisco.” The whisper was meant to show Crisco’s importance because I was the only other person in the kitchen. Of course, she had a cake with candles to make a happy birthday wish, but it was her blackberry pie that made it a tasty celebration.

That fall I entered the sixth grade and made my teacher unhappy when I gave her a note from Mom explaining I was going to New Jersey for two weeks and needed homework assignments so I wouldn’t fall behind. Not the best way to start a new grade, but I learned more in those two weeks traveling than I did all year in her class. Mom suggested I should stay after school to clean the blackboard and erasers, giving the teacher a helping hand. I’m sure an apple on her desk would have been easier. I think the only time she smiled was the last bell on the last day of school. I know I jumped for joy.

Hoboken, New Jersey, where Dad’s family was from, was nothing like Ellensburg, Washington. 

Gramma and Grampa lived on the 5^th floor of their apartment building, no elevator, a walk up the stairs surely equal to climbing Mount Everest. On the main floor of the building was a butcher shop with cases of meat cuts, and sawdust on the floor, swept up and changed with new chips, it smelled like the woods were in the middle of Hoboken. Of course, there was a row of pickle barrels full of fat, crunchy pickles, dill or sweet, and other pickled varieties, like sauerkraut. Another part of the main floor had a card shop, penny candy jars, and a magazine rack with comic books. Each area had its own scent, sugary sweet, or so inky my eyes watered, and I might have felt a little high, but what did I know, it was 1956 and I was in the sixth grade. The inky smells did make me smile.

One night, Dad announced he was going out to pick up a pie for dinner. 

I giggled in delight thinking about Mom’s blackberry pie for dinner. After what seemed like a long, hungry time, he arrived, putting a big thin box in the middle of the table, slowly opened it, and I saw my first pizza. 

No knives or forks on the table, just plates and napkins for pizza slices. I was shown how to fold it in half so the cheese, pepperoni, and sauce wouldn’t spill all over. It was an amazing pie, each bite a different taste, and discovering oregano I felt the meaning of becoming a “worldly-wise” sixth grader.

Arriving back at school, in class the first thing I shared was having pie for dinner, pizza pie that is, and oh the oregano, what an addition to tomato sauce. So many years later, “Mamma Mia” I still enjoy the taste of a great slice of pie.

April Ryan is a longtime Washington resident and poet/writer for Northwest Prime Time.

SHARING STORIES is a weekly column for and about the 50 plus crowd living in the Puget Sound region. Send your stories and photos to ariele@comcast.net. Tell local or personal stories; discuss concerns around aging and other issues; share solutions, good luck, and reasons to celebrate; poems are fine too. Pieces may be edited or excerpted. We reserve the right to select among pieces. Photos are always a plus and a one-sentence bio is requested (where you live, maybe age or career, retired status, etc.). 
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