I don’t like to admit it, but we are pie snobs at my house. It’s not our fault. I blame my mother-in-law (or should I say credit?).
Before I even married my husband, I knew that making pie from scratch was going to be an art that I wanted to master. His mother, you see, had the gift of creating these masterpieces and at the end of many Sunday meals, they would be presented, savored, and devoured.
I was there. A mere 16-year-old girlfriend.
I saw the look on my husband’s eyes when the pie came out.
I saw the look on my father-in-law’s eyes when the pie came out.
I also saw the family in my husband’s house melt into a blissful state upon tasting that first bite.
And, I saw the love that radiated around the table.
I learned then and there that I would need to figure this pie thing out. As a new bride, my pies were a sad disappointment. Crust making was torture. My husband persevered, never criticizing my attempts. Perhaps he knew he still had his mother’s pies as a default. Or, maybe he was praying that eventually I would get there. Really, I think he was just grateful that I was trying.
It’s taken years, and my pie making art is one of the few things I will openly say that I’m pretty good at. There are days that no matter what, a crust won’t take shape and I’ll throw it in the garbage and start over (or decide to make a box cake instead). There are days when I can’t find my rolling-pin cover and I have to cut off the toes of a sock to stretch over the pin. And, there are days when I overcook the apples turning them to applesauce.
But, on those good pie days. . .
oh man. . .
my husband is like putty in my hands.