Mom’s Perfect Pie

I look over the shopping list again:

7 Granny Smith Apples (No Bruises)

Vanilla Bean (Not that extract stuff - An actual vanilla BEAN)

Pure Cane Sugar

Baking powder

Light Caro Syrup

Pastry Flour

Farm fresh Milk

Farm Fresh Eggs

Kosher Salt

This was the list of items needed for the absolutely perfect, delicious apple pie that mom only made once a year, at Christmas. This year, I would be making it, and I’m scared out of my wits.

Every year, mom would pull out this shopping list, and spend hours getting everything she needed, then spend another three hours in the kitchen making it; We don’t know where the recipe and the list began, but we know it was passed down to my mother, from hers, and every ingrediant had to be the same, and baked the same way. No shortcuts allowed. No skimping or skipping on anything.

Oh, but we would all agree it was SO worth it. Every year, despite a wonderful Christmas dinner (mom is a terrific cook). The part we’d look forward to the most would be her “Perfect Apple Pie.” All day long, the anticipation would leave us bursting. Just THINKING about this pie would send us into ecstasy, and the smell of it while it was in the oven? Well, we’d salivate so much, that mom would threaten to put bibs on all of us, so we wouldn’t ruin our shirts. Plus, she’d have to sit in the kitchen all day guarding the oven, so that dad wouldn’t sneak a taste before it was served.

Mom made that ”Perfect Apple Pie” only once a year. Every year... Until she couldn’t. Now, as the oldest daughter, and (coincidentally enough), as a professional baker, two years out of school, with a job as a head baker for a fancy restaurant, the responsibility of this great tradition naturally fell to me. And I’m scared out of my wits. Moms pie was the highlight of every Christmas. It was the most delicious dessert she ever made. a pie so good, that even putting ice cream on top would be considered blasphemous. If I mess up anything, miss ONE ingrediant, mix things in the wrong order, well, the consequences will haunt me for the rest of my life. Already I’m under intense pressure from my family to get it right. The first time. If I don’t, there will never be a second chance.

I look down at the list again. I used to hate the fact that this pie was only made once a year, but now I understand why. It’s literally taking me all day to shop for everything on the list. I have to go to 10 different stores to find things. One store has the apples, but not the vanilla bean. The next store has the vanilla bean, but not the cane sugar. The third store has the sugar, but nothing else I need. Plus, I have to drive almost an hour out of my way to get the eggs and milk at a farm, in the middle of nowhere, WAY on the other side of town.

I’m about to leave the farm, when my phone rings. It’s my brother Tim...

“What’s going on Timmy?”

“Are you prepared yet?”

“Well, it’s taken me all day, but I think I have everything I need.”

“Still think you can do it?”

I roll my eyes, here we go.

“Tim, I wouldn’t have said yes, if I didn’t think I could do it.”

“You know how important this is, right?”

I’m starting to get pissed now. I HATE his condescending attitude.

“Duh. How about a little faith in me? Just once?”

I hear him sigh...

“I need you and the girls to believe in me, just a little bit. I DO know how important this is, and I know I can do it.”

“We DO believe in you Janelle.., We just... Well, dad is...”

It’s my turn to sigh now...

“I get it Tim, but you know I won’t let dad down. Please, just believe in me. I can do this.”

“I know... we’ll see you tomorrow at 4. You know Where.”

“Yup, I do. Tomorrow at 4.”

As I hang up, I throw the phone on the seat, and sigh again. “I can’t screw this up.” I say to myself, almost starting to cry from the pressure I feel. Then, just as clearly, I can hear a voice in my ear.

“Don’t worry about them. As long as you believe in yourself, the others will follow.”

“Yes momma, I know.” I calm down, and take one more look at the shopping list again. “Damn it!!!” I lean back hard in my seat. “ I forgot the salt.” I put the car in drive, and head to yet, another store.

The next day is December 25th. The time, six A.M. I got up this early to make sure I have everything. If there is anything I forgot, I will have to go to the one store that is open Christmas Day, and I’d have to leave now to beat the last minute crowds. I check the shopping list once, twice, three times. I double and triple check to make sure everything I got is exactly what I need, and nothing is forgotten. No shortcuts, no skimping. It HAS to be perfect. “Like in life,” my mother would say to us, “Shortcuts will get you there faster, but you may find, it’s not always the best way.” There was no shortcuts in my shopping, and there will be none in my baking.

Satisfied that everything is as it needs to be, I take a step back, and take some very deep breaths. I NEED to believe I can do this. I NEED to believe that I can make mom’s “Perfect Apple Pie” just as wonderfully as she did. If I believe it, my family just might too. I calm down, step to the counter, look things over one more time, and begin my prep work...

At 4 P.M. I pull into Martin Love Memorial park. Next to me on the passenger seat, in a pie dish, covered with a clean towel to keep it warm, is my version of my mother’s Apple pie. Her “Perfect Apple Pie.” Or, at least I’m really hoping it is. At the center of the park is a tall willow tree, with a large wooden picnic table, already loaded with food. Waiting for me is my dad, my brother Tim, and my sisters Norah and Emily. I place the pie at the center of the table. They look at it, and I can already feel them judging both me, and it.

It‘s my father who breaks the ice. “Well, we just gonna look at the food, or are we gonna eat it?”

We chuckle awkwardly, sit down, and start eating. In the middle of things, I hand dad back the shopping list, and the recipe.

“If it doesn’t go as planned, maybe Norah can try it.”

Dad puts the papers next to his plate, looks at me, but says nothing.

I’ve never dreaded dessert so much in my life.

Inevitably though, dessert comes. I slice pieces of pie for everyone, and they all sit, and stare at it. It looks good, smells even better, but they’re all too scared to try it. Still, I can’t blame them. So am I. What if it’s NOT as good as moms’?

It’s dad that saves the day though again, as he, with a flourish, sticks his fork in his slice, and takes a bite... Then another... and another... and another, smiling bigger and bigger with each taste. Confident that it’s ok, my siblings take their taste, and, to my immense relief, smile. Emily closes her eyes, and savors her slice, just as she does every year, I hear “Mmmmm” moans from everyone else. I taste it, close my own eyes, and hear a voice...

“See, what did I tell ya? If you believe, so will they.”

After dessert, dad takes my hand, and we go to the other side of the tree. There, is a gravestone, with the words, “Jo Ann Edwards, 1945-2019. Forever in our hearts.” Dad turns to me.

“Your mother had the shopping list out and ready, but the cancer just wouldn’t let her do it anymore. Her last wish was that it would be you who’d be the next to make the pie. She knew you would take that pain in the ass process to your heart, just like she did.”

I chuckle lightly.

“It was totally worth every ache and pain dad.”

“It most certainly was. It was perfect, just like she did it.”

He hands me back the papers.

“The jobs yours now. If you believe you can do it.”

I take them, and put the, to my heart.

“Once a year, just like mom did. No skimping, no shortcuts.”

He looks at the grave... There’s tears in his eyes, but happy tears.

“The pie recipe lives on Jo. in our perfect little baker.”

He squeezes my hand. The southern winter breeze is cool and crisp, especially by my mom and dad.

“Come on Janelle, lets get some more pie before your brother and sisters eat it all.”

I can laugh, and finally relax again. Best Christmas Ever.