As Easy As Pie

What's Thanksgiving without pie?

In my house, apple pie is an essential part of the feast. Store-bought pie is not allowed. Ever. Once (but NOT on Thanksgiving), I allowed myself to buy a pre-made pie crust as a time-saving measure. I think I made a quiche for a group of women who came over for lunch, suspecting they wouldn't notice the difference. I, on the other hand, was appalled. The crust tasted how a shopping warehouse smells and feels: like oily plastic with an undercurrent of despair.

I protest too much. But I do have a deep-seated psychological reason for turning up my nose at anything other than buttery handmade pie crust. It all started when I was a child ...

My stepfather had been a baker in the U.S. Navy, serving on a destroyer in the Pacific during World War II. He used to joke that he did battle with stale biscuits, lobbing them at the enemy when the ship came under fire. His best story though, and actually believable, was the one about the fruit cocktail pies he was ordered to make one day when they'd run out of conventional pie filling.

My stepfather refused to open the industrial-size cans of fruit cocktail and pour them into his tender flaky crusts. In his book, this was blasphemy. He was ordered to make the offending pies or be disciplined. He stuck to his guns (biscuits?) and accepted his punishment, which he claimed included a loss of rank.

Every year at Thanksgiving, my stepfather would whip up several pies and tell the tale about nearly being court martialed for his refusal to bake fruit cocktail pie. This is where my sky-high pie standards come from. My stepfather also taught me the few tricks you need to know about making pie crust. It really is quite simple.

A quick internet search reveals that fruit cocktail pie isn't the sacrilege my stepfather thought it to be, at least not if you believe in Cool Whip and other petrochemical food products. Times change. But not when it comes to pie. Not in my house.

Have a happy, pie-filled Thanksgiving!