filling. She always made wonderful pies.” She spooned the filling into the empty pie shell while Martha began rolling the top.
When she finished rolling, Martha placed the top over the filling, crimped the edges together with her fingers, and then cut small vents in the top in the shape of bird tracks. Bridget took the pie to the preheated oven. She’d taken meticulous notes and was anxious to sample their creation and see if it passed the taste test.
Rebecca and Leslie breezed into the kitchen, holding hands and giggling. Bridget had made arrangements for Rebecca to hitch a ride on the school bus with Leslie after school. Martha chuckled and pointed a bony finger at the girls.
“There’s two more strong pie makers. Wash your hands and come help us with the next batch.”
Leslie cheered while Rebecca’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But I don’t like cooking.”
Martha waved away her objections. “You like to eat, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah but—”
“Then if you plan on feeding yourself, you need to learn to cook.” She sat ramrod straight in her wheelchair and gave Rebecca an imperious wave. “Now go wash up.”
The look of horror on her daughter’s face made Bridget laugh. “You heard the lady. Go wash your hands.”
Gladys took Leslie by the hand. “Come with me. We’ll soon get you cleaned up and turned into little kitchen helpers.”
Rebecca followed them to the washroom, throwing her mother a doleful glance as she left. Bridget chuckled when she disappeared around the corner. “Now if I’d said that to her she’d likely stomp off and spend the rest of the afternoon sulking.”
“That’s one good thing about being as old as I am,” Martha said with a wheezing laugh. “No one will dare argue with you.”
The girls soon emerged from the washroom and Gladys found each of them a bibbed apron. Bridget hid her smile at the picture they made. Leslie pranced excitedly in the apron that covered her from her chin to her ankles, while Rebecca looked as if she’d rather be mucking out stalls.
“There now, you look like you’re ready to go.” Martha wheeled her chair next to the table. “Bring your ingredients over here. The counter’s too high for me.”
The girls obediently did as they were told. As Bridget made her next batch of pastry at the counter following the directions Martha had given her, she listened and watched with amazement as both girls followed instructions. She wasn’t surprised at Leslie’s enthusiasm but Rebecca’s transformation was nothing short of remarkable.
“Work it harder, girl! The faster you mix it, the flakier it will be.”
“Like this, Mrs. Kowalchuk?” She could see Rebecca’s arm energetically working the dough.
“Just like that, dear. We’re going to make pie makers out of you girls yet. And call me Martha. Everybody does.”
An hour and a half later they sampled the fruits of their labor. Bridget closed her eyes and sighed as the pastry melted in her mouth. The filling was sweet without being cloying and was just the right texture. Perfection.
She smiled at the two older women and the two young girls. Apparently it took a village not only to raise a child, but to teach her how to bake a pie.
* * *
When Jack stepped into his kitchen, the delectable scent of baking pies filled the room. Gladys washed dishes at the sink while Martha sat in her chair next to the kitchen table having a cup of tea. Bridget looked up at him as she swept the floor.
“Judging by the good smells, your baking session went well,” he said.
She smiled broadly, clearly pleased. “It was awesome. These ladies bake a mean pie.”
Her smile transported him twenty years back. She’d smiled at him like that a lot in those days. He’d thought they’d always be together, that she’d always have a special smile for him.
But in the end she’d left him. He needed to remember that.
Leslie entered the kitchen and beamed at him, fairly vibrating with excitement. She
When she finished rolling, Martha placed the top over the filling, crimped the edges together with her fingers, and then cut small vents in the top in the shape of bird tracks. Bridget took the pie to the preheated oven. She’d taken meticulous notes and was anxious to sample their creation and see if it passed the taste test.
Rebecca and Leslie breezed into the kitchen, holding hands and giggling. Bridget had made arrangements for Rebecca to hitch a ride on the school bus with Leslie after school. Martha chuckled and pointed a bony finger at the girls.
“There’s two more strong pie makers. Wash your hands and come help us with the next batch.”
Leslie cheered while Rebecca’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But I don’t like cooking.”
Martha waved away her objections. “You like to eat, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah but—”
“Then if you plan on feeding yourself, you need to learn to cook.” She sat ramrod straight in her wheelchair and gave Rebecca an imperious wave. “Now go wash up.”
The look of horror on her daughter’s face made Bridget laugh. “You heard the lady. Go wash your hands.”
Gladys took Leslie by the hand. “Come with me. We’ll soon get you cleaned up and turned into little kitchen helpers.”
Rebecca followed them to the washroom, throwing her mother a doleful glance as she left. Bridget chuckled when she disappeared around the corner. “Now if I’d said that to her she’d likely stomp off and spend the rest of the afternoon sulking.”
“That’s one good thing about being as old as I am,” Martha said with a wheezing laugh. “No one will dare argue with you.”
The girls soon emerged from the washroom and Gladys found each of them a bibbed apron. Bridget hid her smile at the picture they made. Leslie pranced excitedly in the apron that covered her from her chin to her ankles, while Rebecca looked as if she’d rather be mucking out stalls.
“There now, you look like you’re ready to go.” Martha wheeled her chair next to the table. “Bring your ingredients over here. The counter’s too high for me.”
The girls obediently did as they were told. As Bridget made her next batch of pastry at the counter following the directions Martha had given her, she listened and watched with amazement as both girls followed instructions. She wasn’t surprised at Leslie’s enthusiasm but Rebecca’s transformation was nothing short of remarkable.
“Work it harder, girl! The faster you mix it, the flakier it will be.”
“Like this, Mrs. Kowalchuk?” She could see Rebecca’s arm energetically working the dough.
“Just like that, dear. We’re going to make pie makers out of you girls yet. And call me Martha. Everybody does.”
An hour and a half later they sampled the fruits of their labor. Bridget closed her eyes and sighed as the pastry melted in her mouth. The filling was sweet without being cloying and was just the right texture. Perfection.
She smiled at the two older women and the two young girls. Apparently it took a village not only to raise a child, but to teach her how to bake a pie.
* * *
When Jack stepped into his kitchen, the delectable scent of baking pies filled the room. Gladys washed dishes at the sink while Martha sat in her chair next to the kitchen table having a cup of tea. Bridget looked up at him as she swept the floor.
“Judging by the good smells, your baking session went well,” he said.
She smiled broadly, clearly pleased. “It was awesome. These ladies bake a mean pie.”
Her smile transported him twenty years back. She’d smiled at him like that a lot in those days. He’d thought they’d always be together, that she’d always have a special smile for him.
But in the end she’d left him. He needed to remember that.
Leslie entered the kitchen and beamed at him, fairly vibrating with excitement. She
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