Homemade

I didn’t mean to feature baked goods for two posts in a row…and let me be clear, while the biscuits I made myself, the pie I most certainly didn’t. I don’t tend to do well when attempting pies, particularly those with pastry crusts. I’ve never been able to unlock the secret of pie crust, so mine usually turn out flat and crunchy. (I am reminded of once telling my mom that I thought it would be fun to have a pie shop, and she paused and asked, “Have you ever made a pie?”)

The pictured pie is a huckleberry pie, and my mom made it. I happened to be in the Pacific Northwest for work recently, and it allowed me to stop in and spend a little time with my parents, grandparents, and a few aunts, uncles, and cousins. I don’t get many opportunities to do that—because life, and because finances, and because air travel has become exponentially more terrifying as of late—but it was wonderful to be there. To go on a walk down and back up the country, tree-laden road I love so much; to eat my mom’s delicious food and pie; to see glimpses of their routine as retired grandparents.

It’s amazing how much a place can mean to us—to me. I remember being a teenager and sending letters to a sibling living abroad about things that had changed in the house, also noting those that were still the same. The same soaps in a basket in a downstairs bathroom, the same dixie cup dispenser. The removal of the pool, the different configuration of the back deck. The new mattresses on the twin guest beds, the same quilts piled on top. And of course, the same smell. To this day, I always sort of hate to toss my clothes in the wash after returning from a visit home, because it’s a such a comforting smell. Childhood? Nostalgia? The dampness of a 1960s-built split-level?

I suppose my point is that I’m grateful for every trip home. Every pie. Every walk down the hill. If you’re lucky enough to still have a home you can visit (and people can be home, too), then it’s time for a trip.