Easy as pie

It wasn’t just that it was the first pie that Carpenter had ever made that was so endearing.

It was the pride he took making it, alone on a Saturday morning. It was the sensory memory of peeling the apples, mixing the ingredients, rolling out the dough with the wooden rolling pin. It was as much about honouring her as it was baking an apple pie for us to enjoy. 

October will mark 32 years since the Carpenter’s mother, Ruth, passed away. A woman with the kindest, most patient heart. Eyes that smiled with  an optimism of spirit that was contagious.

Her laugh was easily earned and always sincere. Joy personified. Ruth didn’t just hug you, she healed you, even if you didn’t know you needed it, offering a warmth of humanity that made you feel seen, heard and safe. She was remarkable and unaware of it.

I wish I could have bottled the love she expressed every time she looked at her youngest son, the man I would build a family and a life with. It was purely expressed the moment he walked into her home. And he so clearly returned her affection. I would tease him for being the spoiled baby in the family, but I couldn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of their bond until we had a son. I fully understand it now. Grateful. Mothers and sons. No love like it.

Ruth ultimately succumbed to an illness that struck her beautiful, generous heart in her 64th year. She died in her kitchen, her favourite room in the house. It was the place I’d met her 34 years ago. I remember the smell of her kitchen, with fresh apple pies she’d baked cooling on the counters. Nobody made a pie like Ruth made a pie. Her crusts were the stuff of legends.

It was Thanksgiving 1992. The Carpenter introduced me to his entire family all at once. It was overwhelming. I have one sibling; he had six siblings, most of whom were married, adding 14 nieces and nephews of various ages who were running about. The tiny house was stuffed with people totally at home in the chaos. Ruth was the calm centre of the storm, in her glory, with her family around her. Nothing phased her. Not the noise or the amount of food to prepare, or the clean-up. This was her home. These were her people. She was happy. 

I once asked her the secret to her pie. She just smiled and said there was no secret, but she gave me some tips, then handed me her dark wooden rolling pin to keep to give it a try. I knew the gift was more than just a rolling pin, it was acceptance into her family. Now, it is a treasured heirloom.  

That wooden rolling pin has been housed in different spaces in all the places we have lived, but we still remember a time where it had a coveted space on a kitchen shelf. The Carpenter was teasing me relentlessly about something when I warned him his mother wouldn’t like the way he was bugging me. No lie, that wooden rolling pin suddenly dropped off the shelf with a bang. We jumped, then laughed. She’d made her presence known. And in wonderful ways, she still does. 

An old wooden rolling pin, Ruth’s recipe and her son’s determination to get it right brought her spirit into our home once more. The secret to her pies was never a  secret; it was simply love honoured, carried forward, ever present. 

Love endures. Easy as pie.