Pie Master

I might have owned the Joy of Cooking, but baking was beyond me.

- Connie Lee

HOW CAN I HELP?” I asked.

My daughter-in-law, Amanda, and my son Timothy were expecting guests for a holiday party the following evening, and with their long hours at work, they would be pressed for time. “There must be something I can do.” Even if I was just visiting from out of town.

“Vacuum?” I suggested. “Polish the silverware?”

“I know,” Amanda said. “Would you make the apple pie? I already made the dough.” She nodded toward the refrigerator. Oh, no, I thought. Amanda had picked the one thing I’d never been very good at.

How hard could it be? I told myself. Apples, sugar, cinnamon. I pictured myself slicing apples and rolling out the dough. But my optimism went out the door with Timothy and Amanda. I’d tried and failed to make pies before. I couldn’t roll a decent crust to save my life, not even with pre-made dough. I was born without the pastry gene, just like my mother had been. My pies came out thick and leathery with spare bits of dough pasted haphazardly over the torn spots.