The Yellow Bowl
Out comes the yellow bowl. My grandmother is making pies today. She takes out the flour, the lard, eggs, water, the rolling pin. I see the expression on her face, her delight in making pies for her family.
She assembles all the ingredients, no measuring cups or spoons needed, repetition is her guide as she assembles all the elements. She carefully kneads the dough with her hands, pushing the dough away from her with the heel of her palm, folding it over itself with her fingers, and pulling it back. It is stretchy, elastic, not overworked. I can tell she’s happy with the feel of it. It is worthy. She tears off a chunk of dough enough for one portion and lays it down on the floured surface. With each stroke of the rolling pin, she carefully stretches out the dough careful not to make cracks in the dough. My grandmother is the master queen of pie making, there are no cracks in her pie dough. She gently picks it up, shakes off the excess flour, turns it from one side to another and continues the stretching process. When satisfied it is the right size, she again carefully picks it up, shakes off the flour and lays it down in the pie plate. She continues to do this until there are several pie dough bottoms ready for fillings of apples, cherries, raisins, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, etc. The top layers are also beautifully sculpted and decorated reflecting her artistic flair.
I inherited my grandmother’s baking bowls, including the yellow one. I also love making pies for my family and think of my grandmother as I assemble every piece I need for pie-making and with every stroke of the rolling pin on the pie dough.
Her yellow bowl brings me back to my childhood kitchen watching her bake. Not only was she a gifted baker, she also sang beautifully. She had a penchant for sentimental songs, French folklore stories, love stories of lovers lost, a song about a young boy’s dying mother and desire to buy her white roses. They were songs of courage but also of tragedy. I always thought her songs didn’t match her sunny and cheerful disposition and wondered why she chose such sad songs. Did the lyrics trigger something in her heart? As a child I teased her about her sentimental songs. As an adult, I think I understand the whispers of her heart.