Raisins and Sugar: Baking Memories of Grandma

 

Image created with AI to capture the memory

I’ve been wanting to find my way back to writing—to set everything aside, sit down, and let the words come like they used to.

Lately, I’ve struggled with what to write about. Then I thought of Grandma Margaret and her raisin pie.

Grandma Margaret was my mother’s mother, and she was always there. We spent weekends at her home, and she visited us often. So many of my memories of her bring me right back to her kitchen.

Simple Ingredients, Simple Memories

Her raisin pie was the best I’ve ever tasted. It was a staple in her home, something she made all the time: raisins, sugar, butter, a touch of lemon juice, and cinnamon. Simple ingredients that, in her hands, became something wonderful.

Grandma was a pie maker. I don’t remember ever seeing her make a cake. But I can still picture her rolling out pie dough while I sat at the little wooden drop-leaf table in her tiny kitchen.

The dough didn’t always cooperate. When it fell apart, she would quietly say that she never could make a pretty pie crust. Then she’d laugh, gather up the pieces, and press them into the pan.

“Pie crust doesn’t have to be perfect to be good,” she’d say.

And she was right. No one eating that pie cared how the crust looked. It was delicious hot or cold—especially with vanilla ice cream.

Passing the Apron

Years later, after I was grown, I still found myself sitting at her kitchen table, watching her make raisin pie. By then, the kitchen had been remodeled and wasn’t so tiny anymore. But the little wooden drop-leaf table remained.

Now I was old enough to sit and have tea with her, to ask questions I hadn’t thought to ask as a child.

One day, I asked, “Grandma, how did you learn to make raisin pie?”

“My mama made it all the time,” she said. “I watched her make it.”

I’ve thought about that answer many times since. There I was, watching my grandmother make a pie, just as she had watched her own mother.

A Legacy in the Kitchen

Grandma is gone now, and I’m the one making the raisin pie. Every time I make it, I think of her—and of my great-grandmother, whose kitchen I never sat in, but whose pie somehow found its way into mine.

I’d like to write out the recipe and frame it for my kitchen wall. Underneath it, I think I’ll put Grandma’s words:

“Pie crust doesn’t have to be perfect to be good.”

And perhaps that’s a good thought to carry with me as I begin writing again, too.

Warmly,

 Denise

The Journey To Find My Father...I thought I Knew My Name

My father, Jesse Carl Taylor w/ my sister Lisa and brother Tony. 1965

Today, while searching for my ancestors...much to my surprise, it was my father who kept nudging me. As I ignored him, wanting to stay focused on a certain ancestor. It became clear to me that it was time to blog about him and share his story. As I've said before, the search for my father has been a life long journey. I've always wondered what happened to him. Where he was, what was his heritage, and how do I find him?  no one seemed to have the answers....

Growing up my mother taught us to be proud of who we are, which included being proud of our name. We were the PRYOR'S. Growing up in a small community, I had eyes all around me. EVERYONE knew my mother. Those were the days when you got checked by the other mothers in the neighborhood if you were caught doing wrong..and they had no problem at all letting your mother know!

I remember my father, playing with us as children. He always wore a crisp white T-shirt and Khaki pants. His hair was jet Black, thick and wavy with a hint of a curl, much like mine. He was a truck driver for Allied Van Lines for years and drove all over the country. He liked to cook and could fix anything. Even though he made his home in Minneapolis, MN where he met and married my mother in the 60's, home for him was Kansas City, Missouri. His family who had migrated from Arkansas lived in Cape Girardeau and New Haven, Mo.

The decision to look for him was easy. I had been researching the history of my family for years and had found a ton of relatives. So I thought, why shouldn't I be able to locate my father?..piece of cake,..Right? well, it wasn't that simple. After hours of questioning my mother, I found that my father had two Surnames. Actually two names all together; first, middle and last. Talk about confusing!  Further research revealed that when his mother married his step father, Paul Pryor. My father took on his surname, although he was never legally adopted. Switching his first and middle name around, he was enrolled in school under the name, Carl Jesse Pryor. He enlisted in the army, and fought in world War II under that name. His military record shows his birth date as 1927. This confirmed the story that my mother told me. That he joined the Army at 15 after lying about his age. He was actually born in 1930. I found it odd that even though my grandmother said his birth name was VALRIE Jesse Taylor. His birth record lists him as Jesse Carl Taylor. How absolutely confusing is that!!!

While the search for my father has been challenging, frustrating at times and very exiting. Especially discovering my Creole ancestry! It has also been painful and disappointing. I never did find my father. By the time I found him, He had passed away five years earlier. What a huge disappointment that was! Little did I know that he had started using his given name, Jesse TAYLOR. His obituary lists him as Jesse Carl TAYLOR-PRYOR..I guess he used both names.

So, although my family carries the name PRYOR. The name that my mother always thought we should be so proud of. It is NOT my name. What's even more surprising..I was recently told by my aunts and uncles, that neither is TAYLOR!..That's a topic for another blog post.

   
© 2013 Denise Muhammad