I made a pie tonight!

I have been wanting to learn how to make a good pie, with the right kind of buttery, smooth, crumbly, perfectly-browned crust that I know other people’s mothers make. As a mother myself, I have now come to understand that I am among the small minority of women who don’t know how to make pie, let alone the women who whip up a pie at a moment’s notice – “Oh, the huckleberries are in season” or, “Did you see? Five-pound flats of blueberries are on sale. I’ll make some pies tonight.”

My aunt has made pies for as long as I can remember; her Thanksgiving pies seemed earthy, made with whole wheat and a rich, almost sunburnt color. But my mother never made them. She made delicious cakes, brownies, and cookies – her Peanut Blossoms (the ones with Hershey’s kisses that melt ever-so-slightly in the middle of a flattened orb of sugared, peanut-butter smoothness) still weaken my knees. An invitation to have dinner at my mom's is still greeted with the knowing glow that one will have a great meal, right through to a very tasty dessert. My best friend once took my mother’s holiday cookie recipe, which to date are still my favorite cookies, added food coloring and baked them just a touch crispier than the original version, and they arrived as a pile of green and purple dinosaur cookies which looked almost alien but the taste was spot on perfection; it was one of the most delightful holiday gifts I ever received. It should be no suprise that this friend also makes great homemade pies, whipping one up if she happens to have a lull in the afternoon. I guess I should also say it’s possible, despite my belief that she didn’t, that my mother made pies, and that I have unappreciatively lost those memories (along with aspects of road trips and other crucial family moments that I don’t have stored), and if that is the case, I’m sorry, Mom.

I do make some fabulous desserts – a bread pudding that, last time I made it to share with another family, there were only crumbs left on the pan; apple and pear and berry crisps from the simple (a recipe used by my son’s preschool teachers and then given to parents so we could continue to bake it and carry on the experience) to the Barefoot Contessa’s absolutely magical crisps. I’ve made tarts, even one with half pears artfully lined up on a rectangular tart crust; berry gratin’s thanks to Jacques Pépin. I’ve recently found a lemon bar recipe that was modified so as not to make you cringe to eat it, yet everyone around the table assumed it was the “original” recipe. I’ve got recipes for vegan zucchini bread and my dear friend Rick’s banana bread that are so moist and dense and chocolaty that they count as desserts and that’s how I serve them. I have frequently paired artisan chocolates with berries and crème fraiche; I have introduced my Aunt Marian’s pistachio torte to those who have never imagined the perfect balance of an exquisitely light dessert that has a neon green layer. My cousin recently showed me how to grill peaches, then top them with feta cheese and honey – they were outstanding and brought the novelty of eating something new. I have not yet claimed them as my own, but I intend to. So clearly, I have not gone without dessert, nor have I ever failed to carry my culinary weight when invited to bring dessert.

But no pies. And I love pie. I craved pies, not ice cream, during pregnancy. Thanks to my local Marie Calendar’s, I was able to eat blueberry, peach, apple and for me, the memory-laden decadence of lemon meringue. Lemon meringue pies were part of my monthly sojourns as a child with my folks and grandparents to a town even smaller than ours, and their lake-side fish joint that had, unexpectedly, a reputation for lemon meringue pies. This was part of a tradition, we thought nothing of taking a two-hour drive to eat dinner. Then drive two hours home. Fresh perch dinners, followed by the pie. Each time, the exact same food order. The exact same drive. We never even thought to try another restaurant, only Smith Brothers’ Fish Shanty. These moments hold a special groove in my neural circuitry, as the perfect combination of familial love and fried and sweet food.

But all this dessert history is now forever changed, as I have made my first pie. A fresh peach pie, with a homemade crust. My friend Nicole graciously offered to teach me how to make a pie, exactly the way I need to be taught. She brought over supplies and kitchenware to make two pies. I watched her make hers, then she observed me make mine, making gentle corrections along the way. She made an apple pie, and was reluctant to make peach – too much liquid, too many unforeseen factors that can change in the baking – but I pushed ahead in wanting to make something difficult. Go figure. And the funny thing is, pie is not Nicole’s favorite dessert – she just knows how to make pies and can make a masterful, delicious pie while distracted by the intensive demands of her one-year-old son.

It came out delicious – I was so happy and surprised and giddy. I took a picture of the pie; I made my husband take a picture of me and the pie. It was a simple, pure, deep pleasure to do something I’ve longed to try for so long, and then have it come out so well. Thank you, Nicole. I am no longer someone who doesn’t know how to make a pie.

Mattering Map

I’m well into midlife. People perceive me as strong, competent, and independent. I’ve overcome struggles and difficulties; I’ve studied feminism; I’ve traveled on my own (to Canada, but still, I was alone; and for a few months in college I went to school in England); I work with people every day to become stronger internally and more able to interact with the world around them in ways that bring success, joy and accomplishment, even peaceful contentment.

Yet when faced with a 3 ½ hour drive by myself, to the other end of the state, I noticed a deep-rooted fear, an uncertainty, really, about just how powerful I am. How can I be at this point in my career and my life, yet when confronted with a form of existential isolation (let’s be clear – if something happens on the road, I’m only as isolated as a person with a cell phone and a current AAA membership card can be), I feel the smallness of my own single life. I will drive over a mountain range, along and over a river, and through flat lands of tumbleweed, now with the added vista of alien invasion-like wind turbines. Really, I’m not alone.

But I am. All the friends, my family, even my trusty car and a lovely new sectional sofa, don’t really separate me from the truth of my mortality, my coming in and going out of this life alone, and the way I prefer to think that I matter. Not just to me, but to the people around me, and, in my grandiose moments, to the world. I like to think I’ve made a difference, that my single soul careening down the highway at 77 mph (the most I’ll risk in a 70 mph zone) would show up on a greater mattering map. But it’s just as likely that my isolation anxiety reflects a larger truth – I am precariously perched in this life, one moment can lead to it’s end or an unforeseen change from which everything after will be altered. I have no control, despite how I clamor for it. I won’t be noted in a history book and eventually all the people who know me will themselves be gone. I matter greatly to a small, cherished group of people, and I matter somewhat to a slightly larger circle. Odd to confront how much I matter to myself, how central I am to every perception, thought, sensory experience even when I think I’m involved with others.

A Cat and a Dog

There is boutique shop dog near my work. This dog is aloof to all who pass by - doesn't wag it's tail, doesn't move to greet anyone, yet I've seen it come to life with it's owner. And who wouldn't come to life in the presence of this young, attractive, wispish, fashionably dressed and stylish woman who is at the ready with a warm smile? I spent many mornings trying to greet this dog, only to be disappointed. I named the dog "Wag-less" in my mind, and got to the point where I didn't expect or want any greeting, not even slowing my walk as I passed. I cultivated just the slightest scorn for a dog who would reject me.

The other day I was killing time and entered the boutique, slowly strolling through and looking at the artisan jewelry, hand-made soaps, expensive lotions, and chatting with the young proprietor. The dog came over to me, nuzzled my leg, and proceeded to stand at the ready for ear scratches, two-handed rubs, and the general cooing and petting response it expected (and that I couldn't resist giving). Four years it took for this creature to deem me approachable and worthy. "She's always been like that," said the beautiful woman in the shop of beautiful items. "She holds back but once you're in, you're in for good."

At the same time that Dahlia (Wag-less' real name) has acknowledged my existence, a neighborhood cat has begun to spend odd hours at our house. This time, I began as the aloof one, although fearful is probably a more accurate word, as I am allergic to cat dander, and have strong reactions when I encounter cats. But the cat has chosen me, will sit on my lap (while I refrain from petting or touching it, and even turn my head away from it to breathe in non-cat air), walk figure-eights around my legs, greet me when I come in or when I wake up. There was even a night that I heard her distinctive collar bell at 4:00 in the morning outside the bathroom window - how she knew I was going to be awake just then is part of her allure. Everyone in my household is now attuned to the sound of her approaching, we all greet her warmly, and occasionally she even manages to find her way into the house through an open door. She's slept in my car when I left my windows open.

My son talks to her like she's a dog (or one of his classmates), bossing her around and telling her what to do. My husband feels slight pangs of rejection that the cat would choose a cat-allergic dog-person like me over him.

There is something slightly embarrassing about the way that the hard-won attentions of someone else's dog and cat provide verification that I am worthy, and that this actually matters to me. I am filled with such a young, tender, and embarrassing emotion: They like me; they really like me!

Sally Field uttered this most primitive, private feeling back in the '80s, during an Oscar acceptance speech. She publicly outed the importance she placed on being liked. I don't recall anyone since then saying anything simlar. As if her admitting how important it is to be liked makes our own longings more apt to be found out. We must ridicule the person who admits this, to save us from acknowledging our own vulnerability. Wanting to be liked - that's a kid feeling; we're supposed to be beyond it by adulthood. We're supposed to have attained the inner peace and self-liking that come with living multiple decades on the planet. It's not supposed to matter if others like us.

But a local cat and dog know something else about me, and I'm delighted they don't hold it against me.

Psychic Slowdown

I spent some time over the weekend strolling through Portland, OR's rose gardens (there are two, go figure - I thought there was only one). I brought my low-end digital camera, and just started walking, stopping whenever color, form, or curiosity moved me. I took a ridiculous amount of pictures, and some came out pretty well. Nothing spectacular, nothing gallery-worthy, nothing that will do anything, I suspect, except give me some momentary pleasure, calm, and a silly sense of pride at having participated in making my own kind of beauty.

I have the kind of mind that must be engaged in some activity in order for me to really slow down and relax - beach combing for shells, putting together a puzzle, or taking endless photos in some natural setting. It's been years since I've pulled out a camera for this purpose, and I regret the years of soul-quieting I've missed. Photos were part of another life, another me, but I can still recall a few of my images, even though the actual pictures are gone. I miss them, but don't miss that life.


I try to pull myself up and out of the mundane urban vistas, the views of streets and cars and parking meters and traffic diversions, to allow my eyes to rest on something of the natural world. I do this almost daily. But the profound quieting of my being that occurred strolling for an hour or so amongst nothing but roses was a different kind of experience.

Last time I had it was searching for oyster shells along a coastal spit in Blaine, WA at a lovely resort. I walked and walked and my breath slowed and my heart opened and I was not just relaxed but feeling complete, as if there was nothing else in the world to do but search the shore for irridescent white. When I was through, I had a cache of shells and rocks and stones that are, in some ways, worthless, but which I poured over and cleaned and even used to serve salmon medallions so that I could extend the feeling of peaceful completion into my everyday.

I think I might reclaim this "old" way of expressing and extending myself, morph it into my current life, my current me. Hope these shots bring a moment of slowing to anyone who needs it.