Page 10 - United States of Pie

INTRODUCTION

After my husband, Brian, and I moved from Manhattan to New
Haven, Connecticut, it seemed like I became instantly homesick. Not
for New York City, though, but for Northern California, where I grew

up. Moving from one place to another on the East Coast, rather than
moving back West again, made our new address seem all the more
permanent. This was where I lived now. But was New Haven home?
Homesickness manifests itself in funny ways. For me, I was drawn
to the place that had always been a source of warmth, comfort, and
a sense of accomplishment: the kitchen. But instead of cooking

innovative modern food as per my usual habits, I pulled out the
biceps-curling cast-iron Dutch oven that had been in my family for
years. Potatoes were now my friends. I slathered whole chickens in
butter and roasted them in a slow oven. I had never cooked this way
before, but it was still deeply familiar to me—this was the home
cooking of my late grandmother and of her childhood on a South
Dakota farm.

Such homey meals demanded a homey dessert, and for me, that
meant pie. Pie solved two of my problems in one fell swoop: it kept
my sweet tooth happy (there’s nothing like sugar for homesickness),
and it reminded me of my own culinary traditions. My grandma was
one of those women who could whip up a pie with one hand tied

behind her back, never using a measuring cup or a proper teaspoon.
I can’t even tell you when I ate my first slice of pie—I just know that it
was my grandma’s.
Every year, come Thanksgiving morning, my grandma would pull
up at our house, popping the “pie trunk” of her massive Crown
Victoria as she slowed to a stop in the driveway. Pie after pie sat in
Grandma’s trunk, nestled between kitchen towels and aprons that
rendered the stacks impervious to the rocking of the vehicle. There

would be blueberry, sweet and staining, and strawberry-rhubarb with