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

Photo credit: Duane Tinkey

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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.

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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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