When life hands you lemons, lemonade is a viable option - - but I've always been partial to lemon meringue pie.
“What makes him so wonderful?” I pressed.
“Well, he is very kind, and he’s very neat. He always folds his trousers back up and doesn't just toss them on the floor. And he treats his mother well. You can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his mother, and he treats his very well. My mother lived on a farm . . ."
Successfully distracted by her deepest memories, we talked about her childhood in the rural hills of southern Indiana, and she repeated a handful of stories about milking cows and collecting eggs until my grandpa returned. After a couple go-rounds with the same tale about some ornery roosters, we were laughing like old friends who already knew each other’s best jokes.
“How old do you think you are?”
She blinked. Several decades worth of memories from a quietly valiant life escaped like an unimportant dream from the night before. And then she laughed again, “Well, I can't remember. But I ain’t old enough to be a grandma!”
When I got ready to leave, she asked me with genuine concern “if my daddy knew I was driving so far by myself at night.” Never mind that I had just driven solo halfway across the country to start a whole new life on my own. We were friends now, so she wanted to make sure that I got home safely.
###
For one afternoon, I got to talk to my grandma as if we were the same age, strangers in our young twenties meeting for the first time at a reception in a church fellowship hall somewhere. The good news is, we would have been friends. Which means that no matter how lost I might feel at times, I must be on the right track.
If given the option, would I prefer to have my wise, old grandma, whose sharp wit and rough edges have been worn soft and smooth under the river of time? Would I rather that she know me as her granddaughter, passing wisdom to me like a family heirloom? Praying for me the knowing prayers of someone who has walked these roads before me? Of course.
But I digress. This post is about pie.
###
Take your lemons and mix the bitter with the sweet. Watch the filling carefully when it’s over the flame. If you don’t, it won’t firm up and will run all over the place.
Don't take your crust for granted. It's more important than you think. If you’re gentle, the dough will stretch more than you realize - - but be careful not to tear it. It takes time (and practice), but a truly great pie crust is more than just an edible base. It’s a delight.
Finally, spread the meringue over the lemon filling while it's still hot, lest it weep. But if it does weep, don’t worry.
Grandma says that, no matter how experienced you are in the kitchen, everybody weeps from time to time.
###
Here’s what I remember from the summer afternoons of my childhood:
Grandma Batman’s arms were impossibly soft and strong at the same time, and that was never more apparent than when she was kneading bread or rolling out pie dough. As a kid, borrowing an apron from her collection was like picking out a super hero cape. Except that these capes had ruffles, and you wore them around front like a shield instead of letting them trail off your back like a flimsy decoration. From the chair I’d pulled up to her counter, like a sidekick in a sidecar along for the adventure, I would watch with awe as Grandma would spin up magical clouds of flour until, out of the sugary storm, a clump of dough would begin to take shape. By step four of any recipe, her countertops always looked like a war zone. But even though everything around her was a mess, she concentrated on the task at hand with absolute precision. The delicate creations she could pull from the powdery debris were naught but magical.
###
Grandma has Alzheimer's now and is unable to cook. It makes me sad that my younger cousins will never be able to know the strong, competent version of her that I knew. She was my hero.
Then again, I will never know Grandma the way that my father knew her as his mother. And neither my father nor I can know the woman that my grandpa fell in love with 65 years ago - - the woman he adores and devotedly serves to this day.
But I did get to meet her once.
###
One afternoon, shortly after moving back to the Midwest after nearly 7 years inside the Beltway, I drove up to visit my grandparents. I’d just gone through some serious soul-searching (and some significant heartbreak), so I felt like Julia Roberts in “Eat, Pray, Love,” except that I skipped Italy, India, and Indonesia in favor of Indiana, hoping my grandparents could offer more relevant wisdom (and culinary insight) than some far-off shaman.
Grandpa had to slip away to a funeral for a few hours, so I sat on the couch while Grandma rested quietly in her recliner, wrapped in a blue blanket. Without her memories, we were strangers.
I smiled. She blinked.
“Do you remember baking with me?” I asked. “You taught me how to make a lemon meringue pie.”
“Oh, well that’s nice,” she murmured.
“You’re the best baker I know,” I said, truthfully. “Do you have any tips for me?”
“I’ll tell you my secret,” she said as her eyes lit up. I leaned forward expectantly, not wanting to miss a word. “Find a good recipe, and do exactly what it says. Exactly. Don’t mess with it. It will turn out the same every time.”
(So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the only secret of the best chef in the Midwest.)
And then, because she didn't know a thing about me, she politely asked the first question that any woman would ask a new acquaintance. “Are you married?”
“No,” I replied.
“Are you about to be married?”
“I don’t think so,” I admitted.
“Well, do you have a boyfriend?” she pressed good-naturedly.
“No,” I said. And then, because I couldn't stop myself, I added, “There was somebody, but he doesn't love me anymore. I guess he never really did.”
I barely got the words out before my throat started to swell. All of a sudden, I realized that my plan had failed. The hundreds of miles I had put between myself and this heartache were not enough. If her disease had not robbed her of her vision, she would have seen the tears brim, my eyes redden, and the way I couldn't meet her gaze. And if she had recognized me as her granddaughter, I’m sure she would have said something comforting about how I was beautiful and loved and how someone even more wonderful was probably searching for me at this very moment and how he would just adore my lemon meringue pie. But because Alzheimer’s isn't that polite, she just blinked.
And then she asked, “Are you married?”
I sniffed, confused. “No.”
“Are you about to be married? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Well that’s okay, you've still got time.” Then, second guessing herself, she asked, “How old are you, anyway?”
Here’s what I remember from the summer afternoons of my childhood:
Grandma Batman’s arms were impossibly soft and strong at the same time, and that was never more apparent than when she was kneading bread or rolling out pie dough. As a kid, borrowing an apron from her collection was like picking out a super hero cape. Except that these capes had ruffles, and you wore them around front like a shield instead of letting them trail off your back like a flimsy decoration. From the chair I’d pulled up to her counter, like a sidekick in a sidecar along for the adventure, I would watch with awe as Grandma would spin up magical clouds of flour until, out of the sugary storm, a clump of dough would begin to take shape. By step four of any recipe, her countertops always looked like a war zone. But even though everything around her was a mess, she concentrated on the task at hand with absolute precision. The delicate creations she could pull from the powdery debris were naught but magical.
###
Grandma has Alzheimer's now and is unable to cook. It makes me sad that my younger cousins will never be able to know the strong, competent version of her that I knew. She was my hero.
Then again, I will never know Grandma the way that my father knew her as his mother. And neither my father nor I can know the woman that my grandpa fell in love with 65 years ago - - the woman he adores and devotedly serves to this day.
But I did get to meet her once.
###
One afternoon, shortly after moving back to the Midwest after nearly 7 years inside the Beltway, I drove up to visit my grandparents. I’d just gone through some serious soul-searching (and some significant heartbreak), so I felt like Julia Roberts in “Eat, Pray, Love,” except that I skipped Italy, India, and Indonesia in favor of Indiana, hoping my grandparents could offer more relevant wisdom (and culinary insight) than some far-off shaman.
Grandpa had to slip away to a funeral for a few hours, so I sat on the couch while Grandma rested quietly in her recliner, wrapped in a blue blanket. Without her memories, we were strangers.
I smiled. She blinked.
“Do you remember baking with me?” I asked. “You taught me how to make a lemon meringue pie.”
“Oh, well that’s nice,” she murmured.
“You’re the best baker I know,” I said, truthfully. “Do you have any tips for me?”
“I’ll tell you my secret,” she said as her eyes lit up. I leaned forward expectantly, not wanting to miss a word. “Find a good recipe, and do exactly what it says. Exactly. Don’t mess with it. It will turn out the same every time.”
(So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the only secret of the best chef in the Midwest.)
And then, because she didn't know a thing about me, she politely asked the first question that any woman would ask a new acquaintance. “Are you married?”
“No,” I replied.
“Are you about to be married?”
“I don’t think so,” I admitted.
“Well, do you have a boyfriend?” she pressed good-naturedly.
“No,” I said. And then, because I couldn't stop myself, I added, “There was somebody, but he doesn't love me anymore. I guess he never really did.”
I barely got the words out before my throat started to swell. All of a sudden, I realized that my plan had failed. The hundreds of miles I had put between myself and this heartache were not enough. If her disease had not robbed her of her vision, she would have seen the tears brim, my eyes redden, and the way I couldn't meet her gaze. And if she had recognized me as her granddaughter, I’m sure she would have said something comforting about how I was beautiful and loved and how someone even more wonderful was probably searching for me at this very moment and how he would just adore my lemon meringue pie. But because Alzheimer’s isn't that polite, she just blinked.
And then she asked, “Are you married?”
I sniffed, confused. “No.”
“Are you about to be married? Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Well that’s okay, you've still got time.” Then, second guessing herself, she asked, “How old are you, anyway?”
“I’m twenty-(mumble).”
“Oh. Hmm,” she murmured, followed by a long pause and some more blinking. And then, “Are you married?”
She asked me this 27 times in a row. I counted.
It became apparent that the questioning was not going to stop until I gave her a more satisfactory answer, but I couldn't bring myself to lie. Lying to your grandma (even if she doesn't know she’s your grandma) seems like a bad idea in principle, but it seems especially egregious when your grandma is as near to sainthood as mine is. So I deflected.
“I’m not married, but I know that you are, Mrs. Batman. I've met your husband. He loves you very much.”
She blushed with the shy smile of a young bride, not as a knowing old wife with 65 years of marital secrets and loyalty to defend. “Oh yes,” she gushed, “I am married to the most wonderful man.”
“Oh. Hmm,” she murmured, followed by a long pause and some more blinking. And then, “Are you married?”
She asked me this 27 times in a row. I counted.
It became apparent that the questioning was not going to stop until I gave her a more satisfactory answer, but I couldn't bring myself to lie. Lying to your grandma (even if she doesn't know she’s your grandma) seems like a bad idea in principle, but it seems especially egregious when your grandma is as near to sainthood as mine is. So I deflected.
“I’m not married, but I know that you are, Mrs. Batman. I've met your husband. He loves you very much.”
She blushed with the shy smile of a young bride, not as a knowing old wife with 65 years of marital secrets and loyalty to defend. “Oh yes,” she gushed, “I am married to the most wonderful man.”
“What makes him so wonderful?” I pressed.
“Well, he is very kind, and he’s very neat. He always folds his trousers back up and doesn't just toss them on the floor. And he treats his mother well. You can tell a lot about a man by how he treats his mother, and he treats his very well. My mother lived on a farm . . ."
Successfully distracted by her deepest memories, we talked about her childhood in the rural hills of southern Indiana, and she repeated a handful of stories about milking cows and collecting eggs until my grandpa returned. After a couple go-rounds with the same tale about some ornery roosters, we were laughing like old friends who already knew each other’s best jokes.
It was lovely.
###
Later, at dinner, Grandpa leaned over to help his bride struggle through her meal. “Eat your pizza, Grandma.”
“Who you callin' 'Grandma'?” she sassed with a hearty guffaw.
"Why, you, of course,” he answered, surprised.
“I'm not a Grandma! I ain’t old enough for that!”
###
Later, at dinner, Grandpa leaned over to help his bride struggle through her meal. “Eat your pizza, Grandma.”
“Who you callin' 'Grandma'?” she sassed with a hearty guffaw.
"Why, you, of course,” he answered, surprised.
“I'm not a Grandma! I ain’t old enough for that!”
She blinked. Several decades worth of memories from a quietly valiant life escaped like an unimportant dream from the night before. And then she laughed again, “Well, I can't remember. But I ain’t old enough to be a grandma!”
When I got ready to leave, she asked me with genuine concern “if my daddy knew I was driving so far by myself at night.” Never mind that I had just driven solo halfway across the country to start a whole new life on my own. We were friends now, so she wanted to make sure that I got home safely.
###
For one afternoon, I got to talk to my grandma as if we were the same age, strangers in our young twenties meeting for the first time at a reception in a church fellowship hall somewhere. The good news is, we would have been friends. Which means that no matter how lost I might feel at times, I must be on the right track.
If given the option, would I prefer to have my wise, old grandma, whose sharp wit and rough edges have been worn soft and smooth under the river of time? Would I rather that she know me as her granddaughter, passing wisdom to me like a family heirloom? Praying for me the knowing prayers of someone who has walked these roads before me? Of course.
But I digress. This post is about pie.
###
Take your lemons and mix the bitter with the sweet. Watch the filling carefully when it’s over the flame. If you don’t, it won’t firm up and will run all over the place.
Don't take your crust for granted. It's more important than you think. If you’re gentle, the dough will stretch more than you realize - - but be careful not to tear it. It takes time (and practice), but a truly great pie crust is more than just an edible base. It’s a delight.
Finally, spread the meringue over the lemon filling while it's still hot, lest it weep. But if it does weep, don’t worry.
Grandma says that, no matter how experienced you are in the kitchen, everybody weeps from time to time.
###
And the recipe, straight from my ten-year-old self to you:
Em, this is lovely. It is such a wonderful gift to spend that time with your grandparents. Your grandparents sound like a lot of fun.
ReplyDeleteWhat a special gift you received that afternoon, Emily. Your writing is such an enjoyable read and the pie looks delicious!
ReplyDelete