Last weekend, our local farmer’s market had cases of white peaches for sale. They weren’t all ripe at the same time, so every few days I scalded a handful and tossed the delicious juice and chunks of bright orange peach into quart-sized freezer bags, in hopes of enjoying the taste of late summer ripeness even in the dreariness of February.
I scooped peaches out of boiling water from the largest kettle in my kitchen. It was a wedding present to my parents, and one of my favorite possessions I inherited after my dad passed away. It is big, brown, and ugly, but I absolutely love it. The kettle outlasted my parents marriage and horrendous divorce, outlived my father, and is still sitting in the same house, ready for new recipes created for the family Ben and I are making.
One of the earliest memories I have of my dad is at our kitchen table, making peach pies. My dad was an amazing cook and baker, but as he got older and his muscle deterioration progressed, it happened less and less. When he did cook, he prided himself on recipes that were loaded with prep work, perfecting the smallest details. One Christmas Eve, he spent an entire day prepping, rolling, and deep frying home-made egg rolls. His eight hours of work was deliciously devoured in less than ten minutes.
Peach pies were an end of summer ritual. Dad would drape an old bath towel around his legs, securing the makeshift apron by tucking the corners between his thighs and the seat of the wheelchair. Pie crusts were made directly on the table, using a fork and elbow-grease to form and roll underneath the old wooden rolling pin with handles that clinked from lose screws. I didn’t know what a Kitchen-Aide mixer even was at the time.
After the crust was made, he’d shake off the sticky, wet flour from his towel and set to work on slicing peaches. With elbows propped up on his knees for balance and the garbage can between his legs to catch the mess, he’d remove the fuzzy yellow skin, delicately arranging slices into two opaque glass pie dishes.
Every year I’d watch with anticipation, relishing in my duties for the day. Eventually, when Dad’s arms were too weak to hold the rolling pin, it was my job to roll out the dough and haphazardly transfer it from the table to the baking dish. He’d laugh as I’d try, unsuccessfully, to make pretty crimped edges or decorative cut outs in the top crust. Pie was meant to be simple, in his eyes. It didn’t have to be fancy as long as it tasted right. A perfect peach pie was something to be proud of, in our house.
I don’t remember how old I was the last time we made a peach pie together. I can’t tell you the recipe he used, and to be totally honest, I I always look up the measurements to ensure I’ve got the right ratio of flour and butter. But the dough is always made right on the table, with the same wooden rolling pin and a fork, and an apron tied around my waist.
Because that’s how dough has always been made in this kitchen. In my house, a peach pie is something to be proud of.
I’m double-dipping and linking up with both Shell for PYHO
and Amanda for Wordful Wednesday this week.
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