Mae's Choice
By Rose Ann Penney
As the sisters rolled out crust after crust, my mother, only a sister-in-law and the youngest of all, joined in to help. She patted the dough into a flat ball and floured the pin, rolling out from the middle, turning the crust and rolling some more. They each commented in turn, never stopping their own rolling, okay Mae, don’t make it too thick, don’t press so hard, you’re close, this side is too thin, did you remember to flour the bottom?
She finished her crust and laid it in the glass Pyrex pie plate, making the best crimps of them all. But of course no one commented on that.
“I’ll start the fillings,” she offered, and moved to the stove.
There she stirred and simmered, watching the three sisters, hair pinned away from their faces laboring over their perfect crusts. Large boxes of chocolate pudding, gallons of milk, lemon pudding with the extra lemon tablet, banana cream it was all so delicious. She filled the baked shells leaving a thick, creamy coating in the pan each time, handing me the rubber scraper to lick it clean before she washed it to begin the next.
Enough pies for an army, because that’s how it was and still is today. In this Sicilian family you always make enough, just in case the football team stops by on their way home from the game.
Finally it was ready, table piled high with platters of turkey and ham, a huge bowl of mashed potatoes dotted with butter lakes, glistening green salad that rarely was eaten. I made sure to choose a seat next to that huge bowl so I could get a serving with a lake. Of course you could add butter to the mashed on your plate, but it just wasn’t the same.
It’s true what they say about Sicilian family get-togethers, it’s more shouting than talking, but shouted nonetheless with love and laughter. The cacophony diminishes as mouths fill and bellies become as stuffed as the once golden carcass left in the kitchen. As diminished as it can get with twenty people scrunched around the table, not counting the kids’ table. No one ever counted the kids table.
Now was my favorite part of the day. Dad and the uncles snoring loudly on the couches or sprawled on the floor, the football game flickering on the TV. The dishes were done in record time, one woman at the sink washing, one rinsing, and the other five standing ready with drying towels.
As husbands and brothers dozed, the women gathered around the long table again, cups of steaming coffee at their places, a stack of dessert plates and forks and all the glorious pies in the center. Tart lemon with perfect golden tipped meringue piled four inches high; circles of ripe yellow bananas nestled in fluffy whipped cream covered banana cream; precisely woven lattice-topped cherry glistening with sugar topping; deep deep-dish apple with a carton of Neapolitan ice cream waiting nearby; and toothache-sweet pecan in brown sugary tarts.
“I’ll have a piece of chocolate, Aunt Jo, thanks!”
A dollop of whipped cream was plopped onto my large piece of chocolate cream and set down in front of me as each called out their favorite. I waited, fork still by the plate. Waiting until I heard those words spoken at every family gathering since I could remember. The words that let me know all was right in the world and nothing would ever change.
“Mae, what would you like?”
“I’ll just have a small slice of each, thanks, Jo,” my mother’s lovely voice drifted clearly and surely over us all.
She finished her crust and laid it in the glass Pyrex pie plate, making the best crimps of them all. But of course no one commented on that.
“I’ll start the fillings,” she offered, and moved to the stove.
There she stirred and simmered, watching the three sisters, hair pinned away from their faces laboring over their perfect crusts. Large boxes of chocolate pudding, gallons of milk, lemon pudding with the extra lemon tablet, banana cream it was all so delicious. She filled the baked shells leaving a thick, creamy coating in the pan each time, handing me the rubber scraper to lick it clean before she washed it to begin the next.
Enough pies for an army, because that’s how it was and still is today. In this Sicilian family you always make enough, just in case the football team stops by on their way home from the game.
Finally it was ready, table piled high with platters of turkey and ham, a huge bowl of mashed potatoes dotted with butter lakes, glistening green salad that rarely was eaten. I made sure to choose a seat next to that huge bowl so I could get a serving with a lake. Of course you could add butter to the mashed on your plate, but it just wasn’t the same.
It’s true what they say about Sicilian family get-togethers, it’s more shouting than talking, but shouted nonetheless with love and laughter. The cacophony diminishes as mouths fill and bellies become as stuffed as the once golden carcass left in the kitchen. As diminished as it can get with twenty people scrunched around the table, not counting the kids’ table. No one ever counted the kids table.
Now was my favorite part of the day. Dad and the uncles snoring loudly on the couches or sprawled on the floor, the football game flickering on the TV. The dishes were done in record time, one woman at the sink washing, one rinsing, and the other five standing ready with drying towels.
As husbands and brothers dozed, the women gathered around the long table again, cups of steaming coffee at their places, a stack of dessert plates and forks and all the glorious pies in the center. Tart lemon with perfect golden tipped meringue piled four inches high; circles of ripe yellow bananas nestled in fluffy whipped cream covered banana cream; precisely woven lattice-topped cherry glistening with sugar topping; deep deep-dish apple with a carton of Neapolitan ice cream waiting nearby; and toothache-sweet pecan in brown sugary tarts.
“I’ll have a piece of chocolate, Aunt Jo, thanks!”
A dollop of whipped cream was plopped onto my large piece of chocolate cream and set down in front of me as each called out their favorite. I waited, fork still by the plate. Waiting until I heard those words spoken at every family gathering since I could remember. The words that let me know all was right in the world and nothing would ever change.
“Mae, what would you like?”
“I’ll just have a small slice of each, thanks, Jo,” my mother’s lovely voice drifted clearly and surely over us all.