In memory of strawberry pie
Today would have been my grandmother’s 99th birthday. I wrote what follows nearly three years ago, on the occasion of her passing on to the next life…
Because of my grandmother, I grew up in this world believing every one took photos of their food before they ate it, that there was some kind of magic in slow, careful cooking that ought to be documented with a photograph. Her refrigerator has photos of meals we enjoyed together more than fifteen years ago – and you know it’s exceptional food when you’re still thinking about it after so many years. The care and joy she took in preparing and eating food is one of many important things I learned from her.
One of my all time favorite recipes that she ever taught me is strawberry pie. As soon as she showed me how to make it for the first time, I started making all kinds of different variations; strawberry, peach, raspberry; strawberry, blueberry, blackberry – whatever was ripe and in season. My grandmother is adored amongst many of my friends who never actually met her simply from eating one of the now famous – and often requested – strawberry pies. A very select few of my friends have tried her chocolate truffles or spicy dill pickles I ration them very carefully, but those who have been lucky enough to taste them will not soon forget. In any case, I would go to my grandmother’s home for one of our regular lunches, and I’d make my version of her strawberry pie. I’d try different combinations of berries (and Fredericksburg peaches when they were in season) and I’d add a few secret ingredients to the homemade whipped cream and plop a perfectly peaked dollop on top of a slice for her. She would smile and say I was one of the few people in the whole wide world who ever outdid her on one of her own recipes.
In addition to food, my grandmother and I shared a great love of the arts and gardening together. She and I had season tickets to the Sunday matinee ballet for more than a decade. We’d have brunch beforehand, usually at East Side Café where we’d take a stroll in the garden to see what was growing, and between the two of us, we could identify every plant we saw. I loved sharing that time with her, and we’d always talk about all kinds of art, music, food, spirituality, and sometimes politics. I’d discuss my coursework at school with her, always in great detail. She loved hearing about everything I was up to, and she was always attentive to and supportive of my needs and interests as they evolved over time. I loved sharing my art with her, and she proudly collected and displayed numerous pieces I gave her over the years, including an early (probably my first ever) scribbled childhood self-portrait with my parrot Skipper that reads “I love you Grammy!” She encouraged my artistic endeavors to a tremendous degree, and for that I owe her endless gratitude.
She loved connecting people who she thought ought to know each other, and it was no exception that she took great joy in introducing me to people in the art world, many of them artists whose work she collected, and others who were associated with various museums or institutions which she patronized. She’d say “Tell them who you are!” and by that, of course, she meant her granddaughter. And because of her, I go out into this world believing in the power, beauty, and wonder of art, music, gardening, food, and most of all, strawberry pie.