My eldest daughter Caroline is visting and I wanted to make something lovely with strawberries. My mother had read my previous Fatal Foodies post on my strawberry cake and reminded me of my late great aunt Maude’s strawberry pie.
Oh, my gosh, I had LOVED that pie.
Now, Great Aunt Maude would have fit in perfectly in one of Donis Casey’s novels. A tough pioneer woman from Saskatchewan, raised on a hardscrabble farm, moved to the East during the Great Depression when so many farm families were forced to leave the land. She was a nurse, and I remember the fabulous photograph of her in her graduating uniform. (Must try and locate that picture).
In my childhood Great Aunt Maude and Great Uncle Jud lived not far from us so we visited regularly.
She was very scornful of the Beatles, as I recall. She was a great card player, and we played Canasta a lot. I haven’t played Canasta since then. But there was no card playing in her house on Sunday.
But the thing that most sticks in my mind, which indicates how shallow I am, is Great Aunt Maude’s strawberry pie.
Thus with enormous enthusiasm I got the recipe from my mother and set about making the pie yesterday. I made the dough myself, none of that store-bought stuff for this strawberry pie, used berries bought fresh from the farmstand. Bought cream to pour on top.
Made the pie in the morning. Proudly took it out of the fridge after dinner. It looked lovely, browned crust, glistening strawberries. It wobbled precariously as I carried it to the table.
Caroline said, as we both peered into the pie plate, “Looks like soup.”
Imagine you made a rather tasteless and overly sweet strawberry soup and poured it over soggy pie crust.
That was my pie.
Caroline declined to taste it and instead enjoyed fresh strawberries with cream. I bravely took a slice, a spoonful really, of pie.
And tossed the rest into the garbage.
Great culinary disasters.
Want to share some of yours?