![]() Shortly after I moved out of my parent’s house, I made my first pie with little to no understanding of the mechanics or chemistry really required in baking. It wasn’t until just recently that I understood why. Occasionally, I’d see her roll dough back into a ball and refrigerate it, only to repeat the whole process until she considered it ‘perfect or good enough’ for pie. When I wasn’t focusing on the task I’d been given, I watched my Mother drop dough onto sheet pans or clear off the counter, making enough space to roll out what would become cookies decorated for the corresponding holiday or pie crusts and decorative cutouts. I helped dry dishes, stir cookie dough, peel apples, and, using two butter knives, cut fat into dry ingredients for pie dough. Because our kitchen was the size of a postage stamp, as my Mother used to say, I didn’t realize how efficient this made her system: once one dessert or tray was in the oven, she’d clean up, delegate various tasks to her children patiently waiting to taste the final product, and begin the next dessert. ![]() Every year, her pies and plates of assorted cookies were requested and eagerly expected (though most of the cookies never made it past the cooling racks, thanks to my Father). When I was growing up, every year around Thanksgiving and Christmas, my Mother made desserts for our house, extended family dinners, the neighbors and my Father’s Holiday potlucks at work.
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