Here is a link to John’s article on how Boulder became the birthplace of National Pie Day…
Why celebrate pie? Well, juxtapose it, if you will, with perhaps something not worth celebrating… for instance, from an article Nibbles recently posted on Facebook on the Norwegian lunch of Matpakke, a stack of brown bread slices separated with wax paper and smeared with liver, or fish or cheese. That’s it. Apparently, Matpakke was designed by the Norwegian government in the 1930s to make sure all school children had lunch during the war years so as not to go hungry. Not a dish to write home about, but it seems to have stuck 90 years later. It is still eaten by adults and children alike for a stoic, austere lunch that fuels but does not pander to the taste buds. Leave it to government to design boring food.
And while I love bread and believe in the idea of food as fuel to an active life, I also grew up eating many insipid and uninspiring meals. As a young adult working in a French kitchen I discovered a powerful lesson that a civilized world can express itself with food as the French do: we will eat beans—a traditionally inexpensive power food—but they will be the most delicious beans you have ever tasted. We will not go hungry and the flavor will be amazing! We refuse to eat food only as fuel, and we will fight to make all food not only taste great, but to inspire us to greatness.
Why do we celebrate National Pie Day and not National Matpakke Day here in the U.S? Because the divinity of pie making and eating is real and worth celebrating. Because pies, in all cuisines and cultures, represent the best that we can put together in taste and enjoyment. Pies are an integral part of the daily struggles of the conscious, modern-day cook: how do I elevate a simple list of ingredients, or simply make something wonderful with what I have on hand, into a memorable slice of pie?
Enter into this conversation, the basic pie, an inexpensive catch-all for what remains in the cupboard, counter or fridge baked between the browned and flaky confines of a mouth-watering crust. There is the savory pie, an agglomeration of sauce, vegetables and meat or a quiche, made with aged gruyere, eggs and cream; there is the dessert pie made of cream, custard, chocolate, fruit, nuts and the like; and finally, the pie’s folded-crust cousin, the galette, all of them glorious and affordable and baked to perfection.
Pies were the first dish I made that pleased everyone at the parties of my youth. I was called The Pie Lady, a mantle I wear with the utmost humility, like a priestess in her flour-covered apron, still divining the art, toiling through eternity at the kitchen counter. I cannot understate my love of all pies, savory or sweet, or my conviction that it is the best food invention between two slabs of something ever made (and lovely crusts in the pie’s case).
Many cultures have pie on the menu and National Pie Day could easily become International Pie Day. We have the Greek Spanikopita, the Italian pie—the pizza! There is the French galette and the Polish pierogi, the Hispanic empanada, and the list goes on.
And why should we learn how to cook and to prepare delicious, well-crafted pies outside of the concern to fuel, the humble feeding of ravenous bellies? A delicious pie can be seen as fueling and as an expression of hospitality, love and the bestowing of worthiness, as is a gift. You are welcome, come in, sit down and eat and share in something delicious, in communion, that is, to be at peace, with each other and eat pie.
I remember the night we invited my husband’s curmudgeonly father to a meal, just he and John and I, and he looked up from the wedge of French silk and said, “this is all for me?” He was incredulous and touched. We found it nearly impossible to reach him any other way than through that memorable meal, which was followed up by an email from him thanking us profusely, especially for the delicious chocolate pie.
Or you might remember with your family or friends, jostling and joking as you settle down at the table to eat dessert, a lonely, elderly aunt at the end of the table, warming to the scene with a smile, as she cuts into a cherry pie, proclaiming it’s the best she’s ever had, and her thanks for it. We feed not just the material but also a spiritual need when we join the love and take a place at the table to eat a slice of pie.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat: So I did sit and eat.—George Herbert, Love (III)
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