This is a story I meant to share with my friend, Tallu, and a reminder that our time is short. I keep this Mary Oliver quote at the front of my journal, “Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.” Tallu, I am telling about it.
Cheri holding one of the 150 pies she led TNFP in crafting for a 2021 bake sale.
Once, many years ago, I made a French apple pie for an older couple in my neighborhood. I wasn’t really a pie maker then and I can’t even say if it was a scratch-made crust. When I handed the pie to Marlene, she remarked, “Why, honey, pie-making is a lost art.” This news startled me and marked the moment that became both an exploration of my past and my future special relationship with pie.
My grandparents, Armando and Franny, lived in a rural, former mining town in Fraser, Iowa on a large patch of land flanked by fruit and vegetable gardens, an apple orchard, a smattering of cornfields, and a sweet, circular pasture complete with exactly one cow. At the turn of the 20th century, Fraser was comprised mostly of Irish and Italian immigrants with a large percentage of them being my extended family. My grandparents’ home was a hub of the village and their door was always open to all those relatives, friends, and neighbors. I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t a freshly-baked pie in the center of the large yellow table in the farmhouse kitchen. It was understood that all were welcome to grab a plate from the cupboard, cut a sliver or a slice, pour a simple cup of coffee and join the others sitting outside on the worn, wide metal chairs under the giant cottonwood trees.
Sadly, I did not learn how to make pie from Grandma Franny. I was very young when she became ill, but adult reflection on my childhood memories taught me the power of pie. You see, in her own way, Grandma employed the “grow, cook, share” model. All the pies were made with garden-grown and foraged fruit and nothing was wasted. I have happy memories of trekking around with a little pail, battling mosquitoes and thorns, to collect perfectly-ripe red raspberries. The love and human touch is obvious in a well-crafted pie. It’s a gift for both the maker and the receiver. The very nature of pie is that it is generous and meant to be shared. Grandma created a gathering space and community around those pies. Her pies were an invitation to slow down, to linger, to fill your belly or your soul or both. Maybe those visitors came for a bit of fun, a laugh, some gossip or maybe they came because they were hungry, lonely, grieving. As a child, I only knew the pies were delicious but through my adult lens, I now see that sharing pie was Grandma’s gentle way of caring for the people in her patch of the world.
I have had wonderful pie experiences with TNFP, both as a giver, receiver (thank you, Christa!), and even as an occasional teacher. The 150 picnic basket apple pies, made with Apple Joe’s donated apples, were the perfect marriage of my passion for pie-making joined with my need to be of service. I have internalized Grandma’s pie lessons and I keep her good work and memory alive through every pie I make.
By sheer coincidence on the day of my birthday in the summer of 2021, I had what would be my last conversation with Tallu. I recall how she completely lit up when I mentioned that I was making a pie and I lit up in the telling. She wanted to know every detail. What a gift.