(L-R) Hunter, the Pie Lady's right hand, and Ruth, the Pie Lady
The other senses may be enjoyed in all their beauty when one is alone. but taste is largely social. Diane Ackerman
“You were the pickiest eater,” my father once said when I served him spaghetti at my family table. He spoke in reference to his five daughters. I’m number two.
Justifiably, my father expected his children’s
gratitude for the forty-five hours he stood on his feet barbering each week to feed,
clothe, and shelter us. Even when Mom cooked beef tongue and liver with onions.
“Eewww,” chimed my sisters and me in agreement to the “gross”
thing on the platter, or the “stinky” meat in Mom’s frying pan. We would rather
devour her hamburger gravy on mashed potatoes.
A former farm girl who cooked for her family of seven from
age eleven until World War II, my mother mastered every dish her palate approved.
Chop Suey and Italian spaghetti, for starters. From
allspice to turmeric, my mother’s spice rack sparkled like a queen’s jewels. She
knew how to perfectly use them.
My sisters and I loved “spaghetti night” because it
meant entertainment by our baby sister who sucked the noodles into her mouth. Even
Dad laughed.
An Irishman who preferred meat and potatoes, my father
barely tolerated spaghetti. And he vowed in Guam’s trenches to never eat a
mouthful of rice again.
Furthermore, Dad could not countenance a casserole of
any kind. His meat and potatoes must be served in separate bowls.
Such restrictions tested my mother’s culinary creative
streak. Employing an alternative, she cooked Italian spaghetti or Chop Suey on
Dad’s bowling night. My older sister’s raving reviews spread to her boy-friends
who just happened to drop in on Dad’s bowling night. For Mom usually concluded
dinner with dessert. Apple pie her specialty.
Incidentally, Dad “never met a
pie he didn’t like,” particularly Mom’s pies in season.
“I could fill this kitchen with fried pies I packed in
your father’s lunch bucket,” Mom once said with her hands wrapped around her
coffee cup.
I suspect that’s one reason why my father latched onto
Sadie McCoy when she met him at the Williamson, West Virginia train station upon
his return from World War II.
Since our apple trees didn’t produce this year, I drove north on our backroads through farmland and orchards to Hilltop Farm with pie on my mind.
“I have one caramel apple pie
left,” Ruth, the Pie Lady said.
“Oh my goodness! Caramel apple?”
I cried.
Ruth smiled. “Yes, and we also
have caramel apples for sale.”
“Thank you, but I’m on a mission
for pie to celebrate autumn and my heritage. Caramel apple is perfect. I think
my husband will like it, too.”
Dear Reader, my father was right. I am a picky eater. What I don’t grow and preserve myself, I try to buy organically and locally grown, prepared by folk like the Pie Lady.
If my father were here today, I’d say, “You know Dad, apple number two didn’t fall far from the tree.”
