I learned how to make a pie from my mother. "Use good apples," she always said. "Don't cheat on the spice or rush the pastry." It's so good to remember those little things that harken back to a time when I was so young and eager to learn to be the great lady that was my mother.
It was the autumn I turned thirteen, and Mom thought it was high time to teach me the basics of cooking. After all, she reasoned, if I'm to attract boys the best way to do it is not with my looks, but with good home-cooked food.
"That's what got your father hooked," she say with a knowing wink. Awww, Mom, I know Daddy didn't fall for you solely on your culinary skills.
So many years have passed and I still make pies just like Mom showed me. I have a little routine that makes the task that much easier. Prepare the pastry a day ahead, so the finished crust is nice and flaky; no way will I risk a soggy or tough crust by letting the dough sit out in the heat of the kitchen.
On baking day I gather my supplies and equipment and place them so-so. One has to be well-organized to be a successful home baker. There is no excuse in sloppy kitchen habits which in turn produce substandard results.
Usually I work in silence. That means no TV or radio. Even the phone is turned off – I can't have too many interruptions. As usual, I tie the dog out in the backyard; he can stew for a few moments while I concentrate on my baking. Today, for some odd reason, I veer from my routine.
Before I start work, something in my head says, "Turn on the radio." So, I switch to a nice classical station, something that will put my mind at ease and increase my concentration. I read somewhere that listening to Mozart or Bach makes one better organized and more intelligent. Well, if that's true then why not give it a shot?
Besides, I was never a huge rock 'n' roll fan despite it being the music of choice for young people of my generation. I like jazz, mostly swing and bebop, but not while I'm baking. The jaunty beat and rhythms are infectious and I fear I may lose my focus. You know, get to dancing and humming, and before I know it, I've ruined my pies because I forgot to do something during the baking process.
I wash, then peel, apples. I use fat, juicy Granny Smiths. I prefer these to all other varieties as they keep the slices and have a nice sweet-tart flavor. It's very important not to pare away too much skin. I like to leave a little skin on my slices – the natural pectin adds so much to the overall flavor.
I pare the apple slices very thin so they'll layer neatly in the shell. Throw the slices in a bowl of water and lemon juice so they won't brown so fast.
The station plays a nice Brahms viola sonata. Come to think of it, Ben played viola in the high school orchestra. That instrument has always intrigued me. I mean, it seems to me that the viola is, as my grandfather would say, the "red-headed stepchild" of the orchestra – always given the supportive parts while the violin and cello got the best material.
When Ben played viola, he didn't like it at first. Back in fifth grade, he wanted to play violin, but there were no more violins to hand out. All Mr. Eggers had was a viola that no one wanted. I guess it's the "not good enough" stigma that caused so many students to shun the thing.
So Ben got stuck learning an instrument he didn't want and resigned to keep up with his lessons. I had it easy, he said. I played piano and had to know just bass and treble staff; alto staff was hard because the notes were in different places.
Now I measure the sugar. I use a mixture of brown and white sugar. Always hated dark brown sugar as its strong molasses flavor tends to overpower the apples. I taste an apple slice before measuring the sugar. Mmmm, just right, so I don't need to use much of sugar.
OK, put the sugar in a bowl then add the spices. I don't like pre-bottled apple pie spice; neither do I use ready-ground spices. I always buy whole nutmeg and cinnamon; I grind it myself so the flavor's very fresh. I like lots of cinnamon but not so much nutmeg. Mom said to use one-fourth the amount of nutmeg to cinnamon so the flavors will nicely balance.
I measure exactly one-fourth cup flour for thickening and blend it with the sugars and spices while letting the dark somber voice of the viola waft over me. Ben said as he got used to playing the thing and resigned himself to supporting parts, he did some research on his instrument.
"Did you know there's a lot of music written expressly for the viola?," he once told me. "Yeah, there're sonatas, concertos, and chamber pieces where the viola is the star. Know what, Sandy? I'm going to learn those pieces so I can get better. That instrument is really starting to grow on me."
That was in seventh grade when Ben was one of the better musicians in the school orchestra. For a guy who hated an instrument because it was not of his choosing, Ben soon fell in love with the much-maligned member of the string family. I think that was the year I started to fall in love with Ben.
I pour the spicy sugar mixture over the apples, tossing it all together gently as not to tear the delicately thin slices. I remember the first apple pie I made for Ben. We were in tenth grade, and I invited him over for dinner. Mom cooked most of the meal, but I was in charge of dessert.
Ben said my pie was the best he'd ever eaten. His mother, who was not quite the whiz in the kitchen as mine, never attempted home-baking.
"Our pies and cakes come from a store," Ben would say with a wistful look in his eye.
Now, time to line the pie pan with pastry. I don't like glass pie plates; I prefer the old-fashioned, time-honored metal ones. The one I use today once belonged to my Aunt Jane; she was a great baker, too. She always had something scrumptious to eat whenever we visited.
When Ben and I went to the junior prom, Aunt Jane invited us over for an elegant gourmet dinner. "Now, children," she said, "don't waste your allowance on a restaurant meal. I'll have everything ready when you get here. You can go to the prom and boast to your friends that you had the most wonderful seven-course dinner."
Did I say a gourmet dinner? It was a meal to remember, not at all what we expected. Whereas my mother was the top-notch homebaker but stayed with the tried and true, Aunt Jane was always the experimenter. She and Uncle Paul lived in Europe for many years; he frequently traveled abroad due to his job in American diplomatic corps.
When they lived in Paris, Aunt Jane signed up for haute cuisine classes at the famed Cordon Bleu cooking school. There she learned how to make those fabulously rich, delicious, and expensive dishes we could only get in the lone French restaurant in town. When Uncle Paul retired and returned to the States, he and Aunt Jane hosted numerous elaborate dinner parties, luncheons, teas.
When Ben and I arrived, Aunt Jane had the table elegantly set with her best china, sterling flatware, and crystal. A massive silver and crystal epergne, overflowing with fresh flowers and fruit, graced the center. She even had place cards and menus, all hand-lettered in her neat calligraphy. Funny that calligraphy was not a big deal in my day as it is now. However, this was my adventurous auntie.
As I ladle sugared-and-spiced apples into the lined pie plate, I recall Aunt Jane's special prom dinner menu. Let's see: We started with shrimp cocktail, then had a nice consommé. I think it was made with chicken stock and decorated with chervil sprigs and mushroom slices. Then came a fish course – poached salmon with a dill sauce. The entree came next: a rack of lamb with petit pois and duchess potatoes, followed by a simple tossed green salad with vinaigrette dressing.
Aunt Jane explained that on the Continent, salads are often served after the main course to refresh the palate before the elaborate, usually rich, desserts. I did mention dessert, didn't I? Capping our five-star dinner was a sinfully rich and decadent chocolate mousse topped with Chantilly cream. If that wasn't enough, she wrapped dinner with imported cheese and fruits.
Never had Ben experienced such wonderfully and exquisitiely prepared food. For him, in his home, meals came out of a can or the freezer. Sometimes Ben's mom would simply come home from work with Chinese take out or a bucket of chicken. Snack food abounded in Ben's home, something my mother and Aunt Jane banned from their respective houses. While we were forbidden from indulging in chips and soda, Ben ate a steady diet of the stuff. No wonder Ben showed the beginnings of "love handles" during his senior year.
I spread the apples in a nice neat mound then dot the surface with plenty of butter. I've always hated oleo, despite what the so-called health experts keep saying about cholesterol and saturated fats. Real butter has and will always find a permanent place in my refrigerator. Even simple food tastes better when one uses real butter, sugar, whole cream, and all those things that are now supposedly bad for us.
Sometimes I wish Aunt Jane had prepared a simple supper instead of knocking herself out. Ben did comment that it seemed like a lot of food, but Aunt Jane explained that in Europe food portions are much smaller and the people take more time to eat and socialize.
That's what struck Ben so much: the relaxed, refined ambience of my home or Aunt Jane's. I've visited Ben in his home many times and was usually put off by the laid back, tumbled, "hurry up" atmosphere.
Poor Ben. No wonder he plunged himself into his music; he so desperately wanted to escape the madness of his homelife. I'm not saying that Ben's mom was abusive or neglectful; she was a loving, caring parent. I would imagine a newly divorced woman, with three kids and working many overtime hours just to keep food on the table, just hadn't the energy to make a "proper home" as Mom termed it.
Now I neatly lay the second pastry circle on top. Sometimes I do a lattice top, but today I'm leaving it whole. I have some dough left over; I think I'll cut out little leaves for decoration. It makes the pie that more attractive.
I carefully trim away the overhanging edges then crimp the bottom and top pastry into what my Uncle Frank called "fancy woman crust". I laugh as I do this. Ben said I took so much pride in whatever I do, even if it's something as simple as apple pie.
Speaking of taking pride in doing things well, I when Ben, during his senior year, competed in the citywide music contest. For his entry, Ben played a delightful Schumann piece composed expressly for viola – "Rasch" from Märchenbilder.
By that time Ben and I grew quite close as a couple. We even talked of going to college together, even the subject of marriage came up.
Ben, however, wanted to make sure he'd win this contest as it meant a generous scholarship. Despite the many hours working, Ben's mom didn't earn much money; his father was often late with the child support check. That meant many nights Ben and his brothers would go without a proper dinner, let alone have enough funds to go to college. As much as he loved his music, Ben knew college, perhaps getting into a top music school, was just a dream. He would resign himself to apply to trade schools or cast his luck with a minimum wage job after graduation.
I slash the top crust so steam can escape, lay the pastry leaves in a neat circle around edge, and brush the entire surface with milk. Then I set the pie ever so gently onto a preheated drip catcher in the oven. OK, 450°F. for fifteen minutes then 350°F. for another thirty to forty minutes. I set the timer then proceed to clean up.
There is so much to clean up after baking: all the utensils, bowls, the rolling pin, and pastry board. The latter two items are never immersed in dish water. Those things belonged to Mom and I take care not to ruin them with washing. Just wipe them with a barely damp paper towel, dry thoroughly, then wrap them in their muslin bags before putting them away. I wash up everything else, wipe down the counters, and sweep the floor.
The radio is still on, playing more viola music, this time it's a Mendelssohn sonata. Ben and I performed that same piece at the senior recital, almost three months after Ben walked away with first prize in the all-city music contest. He received many scholarship offers after that, even invitations from several top schools. What good fortune for Ben to be accepted by one of the best music schools in the country on full scholarship. I know he was relieved and his mom was so proud that her son would finally be able to fulfill his dream.
I was accepted at the same college, so Ben and I could be together always. However, things happened during his sophomore year. Right before the second semester, Ben received a letter from the government; he got drafted.
Poor guy had to drop his academics and report to duty. He didn't want to quit school but knew dodging the draft was out of the question. So he did the usual: boot camp for six weeks then ship out to Viet Nam.
He was gone almost two years. I missed him terribly but kept him abreast of all that was going on at home. I sent cassette tapes of his favorite viola music along with many tins of homebaked cookies.
Ben wrote to me almost everyday, thanking me for the gifts. He shared the cookies with his army buddies but got ribbed for the music. While his buddies listened to the Stones and Temptations, Ben got stuck with Brahms and Beethoven. It was all in good fun, though, and Ben was more than anxious for his tour of duty to end so he could resume his music training.
The blare of the timer signals the end of the first fifteen minutes. I turn down the oven to 350°F. then set the timer for forty minutes. Since everything is cleaned up and I have some extra time, I'm going to take a break. I put the teakettle on while I washed up my baking mess; it boils furiously as I prep my cup. Nice to enjoy a few minutes respite with a good book and a cup of Darjeeling.
I don't even know what I'm reading as the radio station plays a couple of Mozart string quartets. I love this music so; it reminds me of the time when Ben finally came home from Viet Nam. He was so happy to see me again and was more than anxious to resume his studies. In time, and with financial help courtesy of the G.I. Bill, Ben enrolled in our state university's school of music. Soon he was back on track.
I was so grateful that he didn't suffer any ill effects from the war. So many of our friends who went weren't so lucky. Many left the States as healthy young men but returned as physical and emotional wrecks. One boy, who played tuba in the high school band, was drafted immediately after graduation. He had everything to live for – a brilliant future as a music teacher, a nice girl who promised to wait for him – but things happened.
When he returned home, it was learned he was shot and severely wounded while on patrol. Powerful painkillers were not enough. We had no idea he already suffered from an acute addiction to opiates, heroin and morphine to be exact. A once happy, personable, handsome young man returned as a broken shell. He never quite recovered nor did he ever kick his addiction. He lost all prospects of a college education, gainful employment, even his steady girl finally said "Enough" and left him. I don't know what happened to him in the years since. Last I heard he hopped a bus to the west coast. Perhaps he lives on the streets; perhaps he's dead already. Whatever his fate, I'm grateful Ben didn't suffer like that.
Oh, there goes the timer. Has it been forty minutes already? I return to the kitchen, grab my oven mitt, and open the door. Ah, the pie is a sight to behold: golden crust, bubbling juices. The aroma of apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeate the entire house. Ben said it's his favorite scent, outside that of my perfume, of course.
Taking the pie out of the oven, I wonder if Ben would like some ice cream to go with it. Maybe I have time to stop at the store on the way. I have to let the pie cool anyway, and I know time is getting away from me.
I hastily dash upstairs to take a quick shower. I change into a nice autumn outfit of brown jeans, white shirt, and that brown houndstooth blazer Ben likes so much. I rummage through the closet, trying to find those new brown loafers. Ah, here they are. Now, put on the gold button earrings and spritz on some cologne. A quick flick of the hairbrush, a sweep of blush and mascara, and a dab of lip gloss complete the look.
Coming back downstairs, I go the hall closet and get out that basket Mom used to carry her pies to potluck dinners. I dust off the basket then line the bottom, first with old newspapers then with a pretty hand-embroidered teacloth. I know it's rather fussy but I like things to look pretty.
The pie has cooled enough for travel. I gently place the pie into the basket then cover it with foil. Glancing at my watch, I think I have time to stop at the grocery to pick up a pint of vanilla ice cream. Oh no! I was going to take a thermos of freshly brewed coffee; I got so wrapped up in memories that I forgot to put the pot on.
Oh well, no matter. I can stop at Starbucks and get a couple of cups...
On the way to the store, I think about how much Ben has achieved over years since his return from the war. In 1975, he was fortunate to study under one of the best violists in the country. He entered and won several competitions, even managed to record a bit before landing a plum spot in a prestigious string ensemble.
I can't begin to tell you how proud we were when Ben and his group performed in the best concert halls here and abroad. Every performance was sold out; every recording received spectacular reviews and accolades. Ben even went solo, playing with the country's best symphony orchestras.
Then there was a double delight come February 1989 when Ben's ensemble recorded a special box set of live performances. His mother was flabbergasted when Ben called while on tour in Rome with the good news.
"Mom, we just got word we're nominated for Grammys."
Of course, his mother, along with myself, was exceedingly proud of him.
Ben invited his mother, brothers, and me to New York that year for the Grammy ceremonies. We sat up in the balcony and endured the usual parade of pop, R & B, and rock acts, waiting anxiously for the classical awards to be announced. I believe his mother nearly fainted when Ben, along with members of his ensemble, came onstage to claim their prize.
Ben even won two additional trophies for his solo recordings. It was celebration unprecedented as Ben and his colleagues treated us to dinner at Four Seasons then after-dinner champagne in Ben's luxury Upper Eastside penthouse.
OK, now I need to find this ice cream quickly. I don't have much time. I still have to stop at Starbucks for two cups of plain coffee. That's one thing Ben always hated: those fancy, overpriced lattes and mochas.
"Just a good cup of Joe with my pie," he always told me. I try to stifle a giggle as I pay the lady at Starbucks for the coffee.
Armed with pie, coffee, and ice cream, I drive on to my destination, enjoying the lovely fall colors and crisp air. I pop a CD into the player: one of Ben's award-winning recordings to be exact.
It's a compilation of those same Brahms sonatas I heard earlier on radio, only Ben gives the music his special touch. Not too many musicians can make the viola sing like Ben can.
Ben's way with the instrument is astounding, and this was once the little boy who protested, "I don't want to play that yucky thing. It's too big and hard to play, and no one writes cool music for it."
In due time he was proven wrong and gained so much attention and accolades for playing that "yucky" instrument.
Just three years ago, Ben was in the midst of yet another world tour, this time to the Pacific Rim: Japan, China, Australia. While in Singapore for a sold-out performance, Ben ran into Pete, a former Army buddy en route to Viet Nam. Apparently the man, now a self-made millionaire who dabbled in high tech, managed to locate a Vietnamese man he befriended during his tour of duty.
Ben remembered him, too. At the time, he was a middle-aged widower whose son had been captured and brutally tortured to death by the Viet Cong. Pete just wanted to find him and touch base; he wanted to catch up on old times.
I wished Ben hadn't said "Yes" to Pete's invitation.
Since he had a few days before departing for Sydney, Ben accompanied Pete to a remote village far from the teeming streets of Ho Chi Min City (formerly known as Saigon). The rusting remains of abandoned military equipment – tanks, Jeeps, anti-aircraft guns, shattered helicopters – stood as stark reminders of the madness known as the Viet Nam War.
Pete and Ben found their old friend, now aged and nearly blind. He was so happy to see his "American buddies", even showed them several familiar places: open wilderness and rice farms that once served as battlefields. Somehow things buried deep within Ben's psyche fought their way to the surface. Oh, he was fine all during his stay, even joked and laughed over old times with many villagers who remembered him from those bygone days.
When Ben wrapped his highly successful Pacific Rim tour, he returned home hoping to relax and spend more time with me, but duty called once more. He received an urgent e-mail from his agent, an formidable impresario one didn't say "No" to.
It was a benefit recital to raise funds for HIV/AIDS research. Being the ever socially conscious man, Ben said he'd be more than happy to perform. So it was off to New York, to Carnegie Hall.
The New York spring weather had been exceptionally stormy that week, so much loud thunder, brilliant lightning, and torrential rains. Ben, locked in his hotel suite, spent the usual eight hours everyday perfecting what I considered already perfect. Not for Ben, who said there was no such thing as perfection for an artist.
"We always have to stay on top of our game," he would say numerous times.
He was on top of everything; nothing could bring him down. Ben had it all: a successful career, a loving family, and a wealth of friends. The one thing Ben didn't have, at least of late, was a tight hold on his psychological state. It became evident that his brief postwar excursion somehow caused things to become unraveled.
The night of the concert, I sat up in the balcony as I've always done whenever and wherever Ben performed. On this night, he shared the bill with the best and brightst of the classical music and theatrical world.
At the appointed hour, the first performer, one of the great tenors, took centerstage. Ben would be the next to perform.
While the tenor enthralled the audience with a stirring "Nessum Dorma", an usher approached me with a message. Something happened backstage and Ben needed me right away. I had no idea what happened or what to expect. He could've fallen ill or gotten a momentary case of stage fright. Of the latter I couldn't believe because Ben never got nervous before a performance in his life. I assumed, and there are dangers in mere assumptions, that he may have come down with a bad cold or flu. The weather hadn't been very cooperative, and Ben may have fallen victim to the elements and a rigorous schedule. He's just overworked, that's all.
When I reached his dressing room, I found Ben cowering in a corner, babbling incoherently; his eyes glazed over as if he feared for his life. I asked what happened. The emcee said that Ben stepped outside for some air and to calm down before he went on. It wasn't raining but the thunder and lightning was relentless, booming loudly. Coupled with the usual New York noise of crowds and traffic, the sound of thunder was too much for Ben.
I guess it finally happened; Ben was reliving Viet Nam decades after he came home.
It was announced to a highly disappointed crowd that, due to sudden illness, Ben would not be performing tonight. I packed him up and took him back to the hotel. Then, once home, I made an appointment with a therapist.
I was told Ben was suffering from a delayed form of post traumatic stress syndrome. Revisiting war sites triggered it; but, according to the psychologists, Ben was bound to relive his military experiences. It just laid deep within him all these years waiting for the right moment to jump to the surface.
It is now three o'clock. With my basket of goodies, I'm right on time. The nurse tells me I can find him in the recreation room. He spends so much time there these days, playing his viola for his fellow patients.
The doctors say Ben is making good progress; he may be released some time next month. How long has he been here? Nearly two years. Two years since he crumpled backstage and was forced to cancel an appearance. He'd never done such a thing in his life. Perhaps he'll perform again, at least the doctors tell me he will be able to do just that only if he takes it easy at first.
"Sandy, you came."
"Yes, Ben. Here, I made an apple pie for you."
"And did you bring the coffee and ice cream?"
"Yes, Ben."
"Sandy, this is the best pie I've ever had."
"You said that back in tenth grade."
"Did I? I didn't think you'd remember."
"I remember so much, Ben."
"So do I. Like when Mr. Eggers made me take that viola back in fifth grade."
"It changed your life forever."
"Yeah, it did."
He looks so different today. He's gained some weight and he seems not so out of it as the last time I visited. The faraway expression in his eyes is still there, and he speaks in a low halting voice as if he's unsure of what he wants to say. Much to my delight, he hasn't forgotten his music.He tells me he's been working on the Walton concerto and hopes to perform it once he's back on his feet.
Right now, as I serve a healthy slice of pie, he plays a sorrowful air. The viola resonates its characteristic dark somber voice over the room as the other patients sit and listen. Some smile and nod their heads to the music; most break down and bawl from the depths of their seemingly hopeless melancholy. The instrument has that effect on the listener. I can't help fighting back tears. The violin is sparkling; the cello is mellow. The viola, while effortless in its high tones, waxes powerfully pensive and doleful, all the same.
Perhaps it is fitting that Ben took up the instrument after all. I really believe that viola was calling to him, beckoning him to practice and learn, to achieve the success that he so rightfully deserved. As I listen to those mournful tones, that instrument seems to mirror mine and Ben's lives: the joys and laughter, but underneath there are tears and sorrows.
"Just like apple pie. Sweet but not so sweet."
"Yeah, Sandy, just like your apple pie."
"Sandy?"
"Yes, Ben?"
"Keep making those pies."
"I will. Just keep playing."
COPYRIGHT © 2003 by Pamela Parker. All Rights Reserved.