Bobby Pins and Pie (30 Before 30 #7)

This memoir was written a few years ago after a recent visit to my Grandparents old farm.

 

In a time where dancing carefree to “Turkey and the Straw” was the highlight of my day, I bring you to my Grandpa and Grandma Cornwells’ house.  Situated in the town of Deer Creek, Illinois, my grandparents lived in an old farmhouse on Cornwell Road.  Right across the street was their white barn with pigs, cats, and a horse named prairie Jane.  

My Dad helping my brother, me, and my cousin Sarah on Prairie Jane.  One of the only pictures of me EVER on a horse due to my severe allergies.

 Across the corn field on the side of their house was my Uncle Boogie’s house.  Uncle Boogie lived in a huge old, creaky farmhouse with a luscious cherry tree in the back yard.

The most recent picture I have of myself and Uncle Boogie.

As I sit under the same old cherry tree as I did fourteen years ago, I am reminded of the day my Grandma, the finest pie-maker ever, chose me to help make the pie that would be served at dinner.

My all time favorite picture of me and my Grandma Cornwell.  This was taken at my pre-school graduation.

 I recall being ecstatic while getting the buckets and step ladders we would use to gather the cherries.  She'd asked me, and no one else; life could not have gotten any better for an eight year old girl.

 During the walk over to the cherry tree my Grandma explained to me how to recognize a good cherry from the bad.  She said, “If the cherry is bright red it means it is still ripe and is too sour,” while making a puckering face.  “If it is dark red almost purple it is old and bad, but if it is red and a little dark it is just right.”

Once we got to the cherry tree my seventy year old Grandma climbed up her step ladder and gracefully plucked three cherries off the overloaded branches.  She came back down and showed me which was the good cherry and which two were bad.  Then she popped the good cherry in her mouth, careful of the pit, and tossed the two bad cherries on the ground.

           

 Quickly, I followed using the same method as my Grandma and got my step ladder under the tree to begin filling my bucket.  Soon our hands were dyed bright cherry red and I started to giggle.  My Grandma looked to see what I was giggling about and told me to lick my finger.  It tasted like a cherry Popsicle cooling my mouth on a hot day.  I never wanted to wash my hands again.  I wanted to remember the taste forever.

           

After filling both of our buckets with cherries we slowly dragged our heavy buckets home, readjusting our grips after each slow step.  Once inside we meticulously arranged newspapers on the table and floor, covering the all important blue carpet, and began to pit our cherries.  My grandma had a technique for pitting cherries using bobby pins.  She would slide the rounded edge into the cherry and then quickly pull it out with the pit.  After mashing the first twenty cherries between my fingers and breaking about ten bobby pins I finally got my first cherry pitted.  For every one of my pitted cherries my Grandma had three and after about an hour we had completed the second stage of the cherry pie.

            

 The next step was to clean the cherries and soak them in a sugar potion.  My grandma never used a recipe, just a dash of this and a dash of that, never worrying how the end result would be.

             

While the cherries soaked in the potion we started making the pie crust.  Everything was made from scratch in my Grandma’s kitchen, to ensure the best quality for her family.  I was the designated measurer and pourer while Grandma stirred, not traditionally with a spoon, but a pastry blender and her hands until the right consistency was attained.  She then rolled it out and cautiously placed the dough into the pie pan.  Once the pie crust was pressed into the pan I got to pour the cherries and potion in.  After the cherries were spread out evenly, so that in every bite there would be a juicy cherry, we placed long cuts of the extra dough on top to make it criss-crossed.  It was the most beautiful pie I had ever seen.

           

That night at dinner I could not wait for the rest of the family to see the pie I had helped Grandma make.  I wiggled around in my chair throughout the whole meal, nerves and anxiety getting the best of my eight-year-old body.  Once everything and everyone was finished, Grandma asked me to help her get the pie ready.  Carefully, I got the pie off the cooling rack and walked it slowly to the table with Grandma shuffling behind me.  I showed off our work from the day and everyone smiled and began to feel the saliva build up in their mouths.

           

It was always a tradition to serve everyone their pieces of pie and then let my Grandpa, the professional pie taster, have the first bite.  As we set the pieces of pie in front of everyone, the aromas floated into our noses making our mouths water for our first bites.  As my Grandpa dug his fork into his piece my heart started racing hoping with all my eight year old might that he would like it.  He slowly lifted his fork into his mouth and began chewing.  At once his eyes lit up and a huge smile appeared on his face.  He looked straight at me and said, “You’ve done very well Molly.  Very well indeed.”  At that moment everyone else grabbed their fork and began tasting the delicious cherry pie, except my Grandma and me.  We kept our eyes locked, Grandpa still smiling and nodding, approving the days work.  I felt more proud at that moment than ever before.  Having the approval of my Grandpa meant a lot to me especially when it came to his favorite thing: pie.

             

As my Grandma watched the scene appear before her eyes, she began to smile.  I looked up at her and smiled back.  The smile on my Grandma’s face, after seeing the approval from her husband, made me so excited.  It is a smile my memory will never forget, it is the smile I think of now while sitting under the old cherry tree.  It is the smile that made pitting cherries the best part of being eight-years-old.