The ingredients are lined up, ready to go. I open my recipe book. The binding is split, pages fall out, and the corner is tainted with a mysterious stain. I really need to replace the book, but can't bring myself to part from all the handwritten cards and pages. I turn to the pie recipe I copied years ago when I finally converted to my mother-in-law's amazing pie crust.
Pie making in our family is more than a tradition. It is a series of memories strung together, it is an art form, it is an act of love. I have been watching the making of pies my entire life. My grandma who has been gone for four years was a brilliant pie maker - her blackberry pies are legendary in our family. My Mom and Dad can whip out pies faster than anyone I know. And Katie's use of cookie cutter decorations on her crusts (a trick I've adopted) turn pies into masterpieces.
So as I measure, sift, stir, and finally roll the dough I think of my family, spread out across the United States. This year, none of us will be together, and I feel a little sad. I form the edges using my finger and thumb and wonder what everyone else is doing. As soon as I put the first two pies in the oven, I call my sister Katie. She has just put her pumpkin pie in the oven and has already talked to Mom this morning. It turns out Mom is baking pies today too.
Katie tells me, "Mom (as you know) isn't known for overt sentimentality. But today, she began her pie making by saying softly, 'Hello Mom.'" I put a floured hand on my heart for just a moment as the "missing family" becomes tangible.
On this Thanksgiving Eve, I'm thankful for family past and present. I'm thankful for traditions that tie us together across years and miles. And tomorrow when I take my first bite of delicious pie, I'll think of all of them, and in my own way, say hello.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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