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 House on Dixon Street

I remember my Grandmother Margaret, telling me the story of her family's home that caught on fire when she was a little girl. This story, like all the others, she told over and over again. She didn't have every detail, however, she knew for sure that the house they lived in was on Dixon street and that her Mother was in the bed with her younger brother, Johnny, who was just a baby at the time. She also said that she remembered her mother being carried out.

I was so excited when I came across this article while searching the Des Moines, Iowa newspaper. It was an amazing feeling to read the article. The words brought life to the story grandma told me. The year was 1926 and she was 10 years old. She lived in the home with her parents, Peter and Mary  Belle Doyle, along with her siblings, Rose, Bill, Edythe (Pie), Leonard and baby Johnny.  After reading the article, I wondered if  her father rebuilt the house or repaired the damage. Did they  move? Grandma never said what happened after the fire. I can't believe that I didn't ask her. I wish she was here today so that I could show her the article and ask more questions..

Remembering Grandma Margaret

Today I woke up with my grandma on my mind. It's been almost three years since her passing and I still have days that are difficult. I miss her so much. Grandma would think she was a celebrity if she knew I was blogging about her! She would ask me "What the heck is a blog?" She was " The Life of The Party" always laughing, smiling, she loved her family. This is my favorite picture of her. She looks so happy. It shows her twinkling eyes, blue in color. She was a special woman and very feisty. She had so many little quirky sayings, she kept us all laughing. I credit her for my passion for genealogy and sewing. We would spend hours talking about her family, her showing me pictures. We did this over and over again. over the years. Then she would pull out the sewing machine. "Mama and Papa" as she called them. Her Papa was a coal miner from Virginia that migrated to the Coal mining camps of Buxton, Iowa. She lived long, 94 years. Born in 1916 she knew all about the Great depression and talked about it often. She would say  "It's Sin to Waste Food". That is now ingrained in my head, I heard it so much growing up. Margaret Doyle James, will always be remembered. Her love, courage and strength that she displayed continues to inspire me.


Denise