My Grandma Ellen & Apple Pie, a Memoir
My grandma Ellen was a one-of-a-kind woman. She taught me to make her famous, flaky shortening apple pie with jammy McIntosh apples and continually had me in stitches with her quick wit and belly-gut laugh, exasperated by emphysema. There was truly no one on earth like her. With the quiet stillness and smell of freshly-cut grass of Callicoon, New York in the air, I find myself missing her this morning.
The below is a letter I sent to her and my grandpa in September of 2021, a few months before her passing.
There was a tangible peace in the air— thick, like fog or summer humidity—at my grandparents’ house. Maybe it was the smell of freshly-cut grass, or the frogs chirping in spring or the absence of almost anything at all, one car passing by every half hour. Maybe it was the sense of having nothing more important to do than being right there, coffee in hand, bare feet on the porch. Whatever it was, love abounded there in a way I never quite understood till my adult years.
“Can we take our seatbelts off now? Can we?!” my younger brother Dominick pleaded.
“Just a few more minutes,” dad said with excitement in his voice. Mom looked back and smiled at my little brother and me from the passenger’s seat. We’d spent three-and-a-half hours in our forest-green minivan, traveling from our home in Long Island to visit grandma and grandpa in their upstate New York log house.
When given the green light, Dominick unbuckled his seatbelt with an audible click and leaped up onto his feet with all his might. At four years old, the top of his head barely brushed the roof the car.
“I CAN SEE IT!” He belted, eyes wider than a child on Christmas morning. I unbuckled myself and kneeled on the seat to get a better look. The fullness of summer foliage blocked our view of the house. But then, through the winnowing branches…there it was.
“Yayyyyyyy!” We all exclaim in unison. It was grandma and grandpa’s house in all its glory.
Grandma stands on the porch in jeans, white tennis shoes and a bright blue sweatshirt, frantically waving with both arms. We inch our way up the windy gravel driveway until we reach the garage. Without fail, grandpa emerges from behind the rising garage door like a theater curtain to greet us, with Grandma not far behind. I was never happier than this moment, the thought of saying goodbye in a few days’ time far from my mind.
There are magnets on the refrigerator: a smiling cow, a doctor’s appointment reminder, a Peck’s list for milk, eggs, and dry cereal. When I close my eyes, I envision the dozens of apple pies made for our arrival through the years, set on a green and beige vinyl tablecloth next to the Mrs. Dash spices and wooden napkin holder in their permanent location. I hear the floors creek when my grandpa rises before the sun. Late at night, the inaudible hum of the television and the blue light that leaks in from beneath the bedroom door of the little yellow room where my brother and I slept. In the morning, a herd of sheep bleat in the distance, breaking my slumber.
As a child, I wanted to be awake every second of every day spent there. If they were up, I wanted to be up— how could I afford to miss a thing?
Breakfast was practically an Olympic event in my grandparents’ home. There are three distinct stages of breakfast for my grandpa. The first, a bowl of cold cereal, sliced banana and dairy-free milk. The main course is eggs, over easy, and toasted slices of my grandma’s homemade white bread slathered in butter—maybe fried ham leftover from dinner the night before. And it always ended with grandma’s apple pie.
The way I feel about my grandma’s pie recipe is the way you may feel about the family dog or your prized, signed major league baseball: it’s an irreplaceable treasure. So much so, I’ve hesitated sharing the recipe with my own aunt. Is she worthy?
The buttery, flaky crust isn’t made from butter at all but 100% Crisco. McIntosh apples are the best ones to use—native to New York and the ideal snappy texture and tartness. Every other apple variety is altogether disappointing, and grandma agrees.
My mom likes to say I inherited the “pie gene,” as if there were such a thing. The truth lies in my relentless desire to master the master’s pie. Years ago, my grandma taught me how to form the dough, roll it just thin enough and crimp the edges in a way that was never quite perfect. But it didn’t need to be. I worked that recipe year after year until one day winning the approval of my father, who said, “it’s just as good as grandma’s.” I beamed.
At one time, an apple tree stood where there is now a large lake filled with small fish and an army of frogs. This was no ordinary apple tree: it was our picnic tree. The one that whispered to us as we sat beneath its swaying branches with sandwiches, potato chips and boxes of Yoo-Hoo.
There were magical blueberry bushes, too. The entire three-acre property was our personal Disneyland. In winter, one perfectly sloped hill for sledding on freshly laden snow. In summer, a plank of wood hanging from a tree to swing on. Just beside it, a short stone wall which we’d scale and walk along—balancing with our arms outstretched like airplanes—dodging branches till we reached the end of the line and had to turn back. The acreage of forest that surrounded their land was seemingly endless, spooky and off limits unless escorted by an adult. Occasionally, we’d hop into grandpa’s red tractor wagon and wind around trees, retrieving golf balls that dad sent sailing into the brush along the way.
The inside of their home was no less exciting than the outdoors. Grandpa supplemented gas heat with a small wood-burning stove, tending to it often in wintertime. We watched VHS tapes on the floor beside the coffee table with a drawer filled with trinkets and card decks. A cardboard box of my dad and uncles’ childhood toys was retrieved from the basement: cars racing down a track, little wooden policemen and firefighters, and plastic toy soldiers.
Before bed, I’d look forward to a glass of milk and grandma’s telling of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown or The Monster That Glowed in The Dark, flashlight in hand. We’d fall asleep with the ceiling light on the dimmest setting. The smell of the bed sheets, like grandma’s shampoo, was wonderfully intoxicating.
Inevitably, the day we left to go home was tragic. My brother and I lethargically collect our belongings, doing anything we could to delay good-byes. Sometimes, grandma prepared sandwiches for our trip which she’d neatly wrap like parcels in wax paper. An ordinary sandwich became a life-giving token of their memory that I’d savor until the moment we meet again.
Back on the gravel driveway, we embrace for what must be the third time. The thud of closing car doors makes my heart sink. We slowly depart the same way we came, waving all the while. With misty eyes fixed to the back windshield, I squint and fight to piece together the fading house. The trees that shield it from view become thick and saturated. And then it’s gone.
They didn’t live extravagantly, but gave more generously than anyone I’d ever known. The presence of my grandparents made life so vibrantly rich and colorful—mostly with things that money cannot buy. As a child, I loved that house. But it would take years for me to understand that it was more than just that. It was their presence I craved.
Truthfully, I would trade all the things this world can offer for a sliver of the full life grandma and grandpa have acquired over 61 years of marriage. There is nothing more valuable than it and no treasure compares to it. Their generous hearts were, and still remain to be, a reflection of my heavenly Father’s.
As their home faded from sight behind thickening tree branches, I felt separated from my grandparents. Today, at 30 years old, I thank God for the gift of knowing their love this long. Little did I know that nothing—not even distance— could separate me from it.
But in all these things we have full victory through God who showed his love for us. Yes, I am sure that nothing can separate us from the love God has for us. Not death, not life, not angels, not ruling spirits, nothing now, nothing in the future, no powers, nothing above us, nothing below us, or anything else in the whole world will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. – Romans 8:37-39
Come to me, all you who are tired and have heavy loads, and I will give you rest. – Matthew 11:28
Because I live, you will live, too. – Matthew 14:19