Some of my fondest memories from my childhood center around pies ... pumpkin pies to be exact. My mom made the most awesome pumpkin pies from a recipe that was handed down to her from her mom. There was nothing on earth as good as Mom's pumpkin pies slathered in whipped cream, especially when they followed a huge Thanksgiving meal of turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy. I remember standing on a stool at the counter in Mom's kitchen watching her roll out the dough for the pie crusts and mixing all the ingredients for the filling in a big white bowl. She would meticulously pour the mixture on top of the doughy crust and stick the pans in the oven. And then I would wait ... and wait ... and wait for those pies to get done so I could dig in. My sister and I talked today at lunch about how Daddy was a better cook than Mom, but Mom sure did make a mean pumpkin pie.
I've written before about my niece and nephew's restaurant in Chattanooga and about how each time I come into town, I eat many of my meals there. The restaurant serves good old down-home Southern dishes like fried okra and grits and homemade banana pudding ... and yes, I've had some serious food envy on this trip, so much so that I begged like a dog for a bite of grits this morning at breakfast. I told someone at work last week that I never realized how much of my life revolved around food until I was diagnosed with diabetes and my diet became so limited. So many social situations are geared around food, and most of the time I've spent with my family this week has been while we shared meals together.
One of the things I miss an awful lot now that I have to stick to such a restricted diet is being able to chow down on certain comfort foods ... like pie. Pie always made me feel better, no matter how down I was or what was going on in my life. I think it was on my last trip home that my niece and nephew introduced me to a special pie in their restaurant ... sugar-free cherry pie. One bite of that pie, and I was in love ... just the right blend of tart and sweet flavors, flaky crust, ooey-gooey glaze ... they even warmed it up for me ... oh my goodness, it was so delicious. I ate several pieces when I was here that time, but this trip ... this trip, I've had a piece every single day, and on Sunday, I may or may not have had two pieces.
Today as I finished off another piece of my now favorite pie in the world, it struck me that it's not about the pie at all ... not even a tiny little bit ... it's not the pie that makes me feel better, that soothes my mind, that is a balm to my wounded and weary soul. The comfort that washes over me when I'm eating the sweet dessert at my family's restaurant comes from being with my family. It's not the pie I'm shoveling into my mouth that makes a difference ... it's the love the members of my family are shoveling into my heart that changes me, heals me, helps me. The pie is delicious, yes ... but the love of my family is beyond precious and sweet.
I'm not certain, but I hope to take a pie or two back to Kansas City with me when I leave on Friday. But I'm as sure as sure can be that my heart will be packed with a bundle of love for my long ride back to the Midwest ... a bundle of unconditional, overwhelming, abundant, Southern family love.
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