Sugar Pies

By Catherine Pope

      I slammed the door and ran past the wash tubs and potted plants on the screened porch into Grandma Lola's kitchen.

   "Gramma," I sobbed, "Cousin Barbara says she won't be my friend anymore. She's the only one that likes to cut paper dolls from the catalog with me. And when we put on our fashion shows, we have so much fun. What am I going to do?"

   My grandmother could cure or fix anything. Depending on the malady, she dosed you with her supply of drug store and home remedies. She applied a mustard poultice or an asefedita ran and you knew you'd better get well. However, for sickness of the heart, her favorite remedy was "sugar pies".

   Laughing, Gramma said, "Grab your apron, girlie."

    My child's heart rose from blackness to sunshine.

   Aprons in rainbow colors hung from the back of the pantry door. Gramma had made one for each granddaughter from colorful feed sacks, Our names were embroidered on the bib. The had deep pockets for crayons, scissors, pebbles or gathered eggs. Mine was sky blue with pink and yellow stripes. Barbara's was yellow with white daisies.

   Quickly tying the apron strings, I jumped on the stool by the pastry table. Gramma gathered the necessary ingredients. The wooden pastry bowl came from the flour bin, butter was taken from the ice box and sugar was scooped from the tin beside the Clabber Girl baking powder can.

   "Can I roll the dough Gramma?" I begged.

   "Sure thing, little girl. We're making these for you and Barbara aren't we?"

   Gramma was working as we talked. She cut lard into flour with a dash of salt. Experienced hands worked cold water into the mixture. She handed me the flour sifter.

   "Barbara isn't here, Gramma," I said as I dusted the wooden pastry board generously.

   "No, but I'll bet she will walk over if you call her," Gramma replied while gently kneading the dough to perfect consistency. She handed me the rolling pin Grandpa had turned for her when they got married. It was glassy smooth from the countless crusts she had prepared over the years.

   "You think so, Gramma? She was pretty mad at me," I said while rolling ball of dough she has given me.

   Gramma slathered homemade butter on the rolled out crust. We didn't know about cholesterol yet. I spooned out sugar and smoothed it over the butter. Calories were used up in hard work and play. She handed me the cinnamon and I sprinkled it thickly over the sugar.

   "What started this, child," she asked as she folded the crust over, trimmed the edge and sealed it with fork tines. She laid it on a baking sheet and handed me more dough.

   "Barbara got a new hat for church and when she showed it to me, I laughed at it. I didn't mean to make her mad, but it was crooked and she looked funny in it."

   We made five more pies. Gramma poked holes in the tips with a fork and replied, "It wasn't nice to laugh, but if you apologize, I expect she will forgive you." She placed the pies in the oven. "You can call her while these are baking."

   "...Hello, Barbara?...I'm sorry I laughed at you. I liked the hat but you had it on crooked and it looked funny. You left before I could tell you...Gramma and I made sugar pies. By the time you get here, they'll be done...I'll meet you by the back gate...Okay, 'bye."

   "She's coming, Gramma. The sugar pies won her over."

   The screen door slammed again with my quick exit. Cinnamon sweetness greeted us when we hurried back in. Our taste buds tingled with anticipation. Barbara grabbed her apron. Our faces were soon covered with sugar and pastry flakes. Ice cold milk was the perfect compliment to our feast. Girlish chatter and giggles filled the room.

   " A new catalog come in the mail today," Gramma said. "You girls can have the old one on the table. I'll be in the garden tying up the pole beans. Put the milk away before you start your fashion show."

   "Okay, Gramma," we chimed. "Thanks."

   My world was back in harmony. Gramma's best remedy had worked again.