Miss American Pie

 Ever have one of those “Wow, I was just talking about…” moments? I have them a lot, which is how I know there is a God and She loves to joke with me.

 The latest is pie. Last week, to a group of other writers, I proclaimed that “Pies are the new cupcakes.” It got me on a roll talking about my late mother, who was the Queen of Pies.

 Lo and behold, today I found out about Pie Social, 2-6 p.m. this Saturday, Nov. 13 at Fifth and Roosevelt. I read about it on Chow Bella and I am jealous I didn’t think of it. Bring two pies and get five tasting tickets, or tickets are five for $10 if you are lazy or pie-challenged. I wish Mom was still around so I could ply her for advice.

 I don’t know what her secret was. She made the flakiest, best-tasting crust ever. Not heavy, not too sweet, but just sweet enough. It never got soggy or fell apart. It was pinched just so around the edge. And she never worked from a recipe, that I saw, anyway. She just had a feel for the dough, much like when she made her famous pierogis.

 My favorite was her lemon meringue, which was made with lemon Jell-O, not real lemons. The meringue always sweated out little beads on top, which, later in life, I learned was not optimal. Doesn’t matter. It was my favorite. On my birthday, I always asked Mom to bake a lemon meringue pie, not a cake.

 She would make strawberry rhubarb pie with rhubarb from our garden, but despite the fact that everyone seems to think the love of rhubarb is programmed into Midwesterners’ DNA, I wasn’t fond of the bitter weed. I forgave her for her forays into rhubarb, even when she didn’t bake a back-up pie to satisfy my tastes.

 One time, shortly after I was married, my husband announced he had to attend a conference in Madison, Wisconsin, and I was invited to go with him. Being that Wisconsin is next door to Michigan, I asked my parents to pop over and see me, since I’d be in the neighborhood. Never mind that it was, oh, 400 miles. I also asked if Mom could bring a blueberry pie. She did. We each had a small piece in our hotel room, and then the next day, the cleaning crew threw it out. I was so upset I could barely see straight. My precious pie! How could someone think we were done with it?

 My dad was a pie fiend, too. I remember when Mom would surprise him with one after dinner sometimes, carefully lifting the metal tin full of chocolate cream goodness out of the fridge, and his eyes would light up like a little kid’s. He’d look at me with that devilish grin, and we’d have a moment of unspoken glee between us. We knew what each other was thinking: “Oh boy! Pie!”

 Can something as simple as a piece of pie bring that much happiness to the world? Can baking a pie for someone be an act of love? Can it bring families together?

 Maybe we should not stop at one pie social, but we should organize pie rallies, where Republicans and Democrats and people of all colors and faiths and nationalities come together and eat pie in solidarity! And no throwing pies in faces or telling people to “shut their pieholes.” Just good, old-fashioned, American-as-apple-pie neighborly get-togethers, where no one is scorned for a love of cherries over berries or peaches over pecans. All pies are equal.

 All I am saying is … give pie a chance.