Pie: A Love Song

I love everything about pie.

The plump fresh fruit. The rolling out of crust. The weight of a beautiful pottery pie dish, deep, with fluted edges and shimmering designs in glaze. The smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, or toasting nuts, or caramelizing sugar, or slowly softening apples or berries.

I love the way pie marks seasons.

Peach is summer, in all its glorious deep orange days, sticky from the heat and the exercise, breathless with the sugary goodness of freedom from obligations. Pumpkin is fall, spicy with the scent of dry leaves, rich and warm and comforting as a crowd gathered around a kitchen table, laughing. Pear and cranberry with homemade caramel is winter, when cozy sweaters wrap us in their caramel arms and lull us into contentment by the fire, when soft, sedentary days need the punctuation of something bright and tart and red. Raspberry is spring, bursting with sweet promise and filling your mouth with the sudden luxury of fresh fruit that is not orange.

I love the process of making pie.

The cool smoothness of the marble rolling pin and the deft wrist movements you need to peel the crust up from the counter and gently lay it into the dish. The wonder in my son's eyes as I peel the apple in one continuous curl. The "helping" that dots the floor with flour, the counters with butter, the noses with nutmeg. The anticipation of small hands and faces pressed up against the oven window, the scent of cooked goodness wafting around the kitchen.

This year we are going to visit family for Thanksgiving, and we are bringing the pies. Three pies. All to be topped with the most decadent whipped cream you ever tried, flavored with orange and cardamom. We have three small pie pumpkins, lovingly chosen a few weeks ago, and left in the cool of the garage to mellow and sweeten until we can roast them tomorrow and puree them and turn them into heavy disks of pie perfection. This morning, around the breakfast table, we had our final, serious conversation about Just What Kinds of Pie To Make. Tomorrow, we roast pumpkins for Son's favorite, peel apples for Daughter's, and break up pecans for Husband's. And then, we bake. Our family, all together. Covered in flour and spiced with laughter.

We bake together, and then we eat together. Thankful that we have a family that can laugh together even when, inexplicably, the pie turns out terrible as it did on one memorable Christmas. Thankful for the ritual of pie.