Mary Loretta Kelly

 When children present you with a Christmas gift, it will always have a special meaning for them and you. My son gave me a wooden hand-strewn, made in Vermont, rolling pin. I’ll never forget the pride in his eyes and his joyful anticipation as he waited for me to open this treasured object he picked out for his mom.

My mother's pies were heralded as "the best pies ever" by those who ever had the lucky chance to have a slice of her apple or rhubarb. Her crusts were made the old-fashioned way with lard. She taught me how to make a fine pie as well, and I learned by watching her, though I've yet to master her perfect fluting technique.

“Choose an apple that will simmer down, soft and juicy”, she told me. She used Jonathans, added brown sugar and cinnamon with just a touch of nutmeg. Although nowadays a Jonathan apple is hard to find in your local supermarket, out -of-fashion I suppose. Her rhubarb pie had just the right touch of sweet and sour, and the rhubarb was cut in the backyard on our farm. Every Sunday she made three pies for our large family.      

However did she manage? 

My son, even at age nine, understood the pie magic of his grandmother, and in the inimitable innocence and hope of a child he wanted to bequeath the magic to his mother. For the past forty-four years it's the only rolling pin I've ever used or ever will use. And from time to time, it makes magic, too.