Today we made pie. It all started when we were reading a book with a pie in it, and M asked us what it was. How could he not know what pie is? But come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve made pie since M was born. And suddenly, we needed pie.
At B’s request, M and I worked on a Toll House Pie all day. We started in the morning with the crust, and while I explained the science (lightly), taught him how to dust with flour and roll, and made little pie crust chips for him to eat at lunch with the leftovers, I felt so privileged to be passing along an experience I had with my mother, and she had with hers. It was as much a tradition as any in our family, tied to our traditional Midwestern stock like the mini-farm in the backyard and the old-fashioned middle names.
Sure, the pie was a little tough. It’s a delicate art, making crust and filling without generating gluten in the process. But it was the best pie I’d ever had. Ever.