Poetry published in international journal
"The Meaning of Pie" featured in inScribe Journal of Creative Writing in South Australia
Dear Readers:
I’m delighted to share that I’ve had another food-related poem accepted at a literary journal, this one from Tabor Institute of Higher Education in South Australia. This poem was inspired by the Poetry Palooza’s Poetry & Pie event in Central Iowa this summer.
After I was asked to moderate the Poetry & Pie event and share a few poems, I started thinking about my beloved pie-baking maternal grandma Dorothy Marchino. I wrote this piece for the program. Thanks for the prompt, Team Palooza! After I read it, several audience members asked for a copy and a few people even emailed and encouraged me to submit it. So I did — and wow, an Iowa poem inspired by an Indiana farmer/teacher made its way to a journal in Unley, South Australia. That’s the power of poetry and pie.
You can order a copy of the journal here (don’t you love the cover art?) or by clicking on the photo. I’ve also pasted the poem below.
Thanks as always for your support and your comments. What is your favorite pie? Please share! — Suzanna
The Meaning of Pie
My grandmother baked pie reverently,
as if it was a religion. A farm girl, she grew up
surrounded by fields, orchards, brambles.
Peaches spilled from knobby trees, round
and soft, covered with velvety fuzz. Apples
hung from low limbs, hard crisp green varieties,
mouth-watering red orbs with tantalizing names:
Pricilla, Pink Lady, Empire. Reddish-purple plums
dangled like pendants. Bright cherries gleamed:
crimson, lush, tart, brilliant strawberries twinkled
under deep green leaves. Raspberries clung
to floricanes like gems: plump rosy, juicy black,
dangerous treasures hidden between thorns,
so fresh, so floral, so sweet. Green gooseberries
burst forth, pinstriped, translucent, sour, acidic.
With these gifts, my grandmother prepared the pie,
standing at the counter as if it were an altar.
Carefully mixing and rolling the crust, lard only
for optimum flakiness, hands rubbing flour
on the wooden rolling pin, fingers working the crust
into a circle, placing it lovingly in the tin pan,
expertly carving off the excess with a paring knife,
pricking the bottom with fork tines, weighing it
with beads, fluting the edges with a practiced pinch
of thumb and forefinger, cutting lattice strips
with a pinking roller, covering the top,
sprinkling sugar like holy water.
This was the ritual of fruit pie. No custard pie,
no chess pie, no raisin or French Silk. Why bother
when the earth gave you jewels. Sturdy hand pie
from firm fruit, so the men could carry it to the field
after lunch. Plate pie, oozing with sauce, dripping.
Pie for potlucks, pie for holidays, pie for Sunday dinner,
pie for baptisms, pie for funerals.
When I smell pie, I see her sturdy form standing
by the linoleum counter in her vestments,
blue apron and white dish towel. Small hands
flying, cutting, slicing, mixing apples in a bowl,
adding sugar and cinnamon, dotting it
with dabs of butter. The aroma permeates
the house as she lifts the pie from the oven
in all its majesty: the pink ladies, scarlet cherries,
carmine strawberries, purple raspberries
transformed like stained glass catching the light.
I am transfixed by the the cutting of the crust,
the gentle lifting of the slice, fruit cascading
onto the plate, liquid spreading in a sweet pool.
She holds out a gold-rimmed dessert plate
and smiles. Here is my heart, she is saying.
Here is my love. Here is my offering.
Author’s note: Duane Tinkey’s pie photo appeared in the January, 2023 issue of dsm magazine along with a writeup by phenomenal writer Karla Walsh. That luscious piece of cherry pie was from Pastries and Pie by Lana in Des Moines. Lana Ross’ pies are available on order, baked goods are for sale at Zanzibar Coffee Shop, and you can take pie making classes from her at Kitchen Collage in Des Moines.
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…. Your poem transported me to the southern Alberta ranch kitchen where I grew up, remembering my own grandmother’s apple pie production. Not just one pie, but usually many pies. And there was always a pan of warm ‘do- dads’ for the kids….. baked pastry bits sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Yes, I could see the well worn linoleum counter tops, and a somewhat temperamental wood stove!! Apples often came from a cousin’s orchard in the Okanagan lakes region. Other times her pies were made from local ‘Saskatoon’ berries or very sour chokecherries (often picked by myself and visiting kids) laced with bits of sour apple, and lots of cinnamon. The tender crust reflected years of practice, and well chilled lard laced with homemade butter. Our winter favorite was home made mince meat pie, topped with hand turned ice cream.
Wonderful ... took me back to 52 (once per week) cherry pies (with lard and fluted edges) my mother made every 4th of July weekend for more than dozen years. It was a ritual event ... and everything else stopped while pie-making was going on.