My grandmother made the best pies. I loved going to her house each summer knowing that she would have fresh baked raspberry pies waiting in the fridge. This poem is for her.
Some folks like warm pie, but I prefer mine cold. My mom and grandma always made their pies from scratch. This means they made their own crust by mixing up the flour and shortening, salt and water, and rolled it out with a rolling pin. They mixed fresh fruit with sugar and cornstarch and poured it into the pie crust. Most of the time they added a top crust, pinching the edges to hold them together to make a scalloped appearance.
My earliest recollection of real fruit pie
Is sitting at the kitchen table
In my Grandma Hartzler’s house
Watching her cut into a big fourteen inch Raspberry pie
Thick and smooth with a dip of real whipped cream
Straining out all the seeds with a cheese cloth
Adding cornstarch to thicken the remaining juice
Flaky crust made with flour and lard
Real cream skimmed off the top of glass milk jugs
Raw milk straight from the cow
No pasteurization No homogenization
Cream floating to the top
It always brought a smile to her face and a sparkle to her eye
To watch her grandson eat her black raspberry pie
No need to wait till dinner
She knew I couldn’t wait
So from the fridge she took the pie
And put a big slice on my plate