Debby Does…

The year after my mom died, I decided to start writing a book about pies. When I was between 3 and 5 years old, my mother, at the insistence of my father (the asshole), baked pies and cheesecakes to sell to summer visitors, locals, and area restaurants. A high school English teacher during the other months of the year, Judy worked her tail off and suffered from chronic pain after a car accident in the late 1960s. Still, she baked those pies and cheesecakes, delivered them, and cost accounted the living daylights out of her endeavors. I cannot imagine that it made that much financial difference, but my father got his way, which was always the way.

The book has started to come together, but struggles with momentum, like its writer. It’s like that maddening driver on the highway, the one who speeds up and slows down with seemingly no reason. Sometimes, I surge ahead, baking and writing with a sense of determination. And, other times, like these past few months, I seem to lose my drive. I do believe not having a kitchen has been a strong component of that last bit.

Now, I’m down to only a few pies—2 kinds of apple, 2 kinds of pecan, and Mississippi Mud. The first four will find their way to someone’s Thanksgiving table and the last will be the delicious ending, also know as dessert, to 2024, the year of great change.

Just the other day, I found myself reading each entry in my writing folder. At first, I started out just summarizing the experience of baking, but found that there were stories to be told, and not just about pies. The time in the kitchen, the smells, the visceral memories of those times is so important for me to document and share. While I think it’s part of my grieving process, I also love the picture that it paints and can learn from the sadness that I missed as a child.

I don’t know that anyone will want to read the book, let alone publish it. At the very least, there may be a recipe or two that piques interest. The journey is what I needed. It reminded me of her strength, her fortitude, her wherewithal, and her survival instincts, all on full display as she mothered and protected me in the most loving way imaginable. As she slipped away into the haze of dementia, those qualities faded and are what I need most in my own life.

The simple truth is that I do not like pie. I am not even entirely certain that I bake good pies. The pies are simply a vehicle for reflection, determination, and creativity. I also get to share them with the people I love. Even through the pain, I think my mom felt immense joy when she handed one of her beautiful pies to a friend, a fellow parishioner, or a family of vacationers. All the hard work, the ubiquitous burns on her hands from the oven, and the bits of struggle were made worth it by the simple gift of delicious happiness.

Writing is that for me. I feel a sort of euphoric bubbling up inside me when someone shares that I wrote something they loved, something that touched them, or something that might have taken them back to a time they had forgotten. Last night, I read beautiful writing by a friend’s daughter and thought how unlimited the gift of the written word is. No Chat GPT could ever truly replace that. The writing and the reading is an intimate exchange between two people. It is sacred, and soul baring, and special. I’m especially grateful for it in my life.

I’m determined to finish my Pie Project by the end of 2024, and then take the time to add, delete, edit, and finalize this labor of love and flour and sugar. What happens after that is yet to be determined, but I did get a message from the universe with my Kung Pao the other night.

Happy Reading! Happy Writing! Happy Dreaming!