The World Needs More Pie

Happy 75th Birthday to the Hippest, Coolest Mom Ever

2012-01-19T14:35:00.000-08:00

Today is my mom’s 75th birthday. I would be in Los Angeles celebrating with her, but instead I am in New Orleans attending the American Booksellers Association Winter Conference as a guest author. I feel very privileged to have been invited to this conference, but I feel even more privileged to have been raised by such a great mom. I probably wouldn’t even be at this conference – hell, I may not even still be alive – if not for my mom and all the values, wisdom, strength and grace she instilled in me.

Can you even tell which one is my mom? Didn't think so!

I write a lot in my book, Making Piece, about my relationship with my dad. That’s mostly because my book centers around pie and my dad and I share a love for pie. But in this blog, I find I write a lot more about my mom. That is because as I try to make sense of this confusing life by writing these soul-searching essays, I constantly hear my mom’s helpful, calming, sensible voice as my guiding force.

Which is why, for my mom’s birthday, I am giving her this gift of a “Birthday Card Blog” to let her—and the rest of the world—know just how amazing she is and share a few of the invaluable tools she taught me. And I believe I speak for my four siblings too.

Dress Well – My mom is one of the hippest people I know. She has outstanding taste in clothes, she puts them together well, and she always looks “smashing.” Her wardrobe is so covetable I always raid her closet when I come to visit, borrowing something cute, like a BCBG sweater or a Banana Republic skirt. Lucky for me we are about the same size. And, on occasion, when falling in love with some piece of her clothing she will utter my favorite four words: “You can have it.” I don’t know anyone who gets and even begs for hand-me-downs from their 75-year-old mother!

Dine Well – It was my mom who introduced me to high tea, the very elegant British tradition of drinking tea and eating scones at a table set with delicate china and shiny silver. But my mom also taught me that high tea must be enjoyed properly by wearing a hat and gloves and a flowery dress. (Kudos to my mom for being able to get me out of my overalls!) My mom also knows the art of gourmet cooking. When I was in grade school she and her friends formed a food club and took turns hosting elegant home-cooked French meals. She once sent me to the store to get pearl onions for her Coq au Vin and I came home with the smallest yellow onions I could find. She didn’t get upset. She made do with the “wrong” ones. To this day whenever I see pearl onions I appreciate my mother’s culinary skills, her lessons to me about fine dining, and her flexibility in ingredients.

Mind Your Manners – I wish that kids today were able to be raised by my mother. I see so many rude, inconsiderate little monsters running wild in restaurants, screaming at the top of their lungs, and whining to their parents. Parents who think their kids are perfect. My mom would not tolerate bad behavior and for that I recognize that I am so very very lucky. She taught us to say please and thank you. And send thank you cards. She taught us to hold the door open for someone or help an elderly person to cross the street. She taught us that if you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say it at all. And she taught us table manners – something that seems to have vanished in our society – basic functions like chew with your mouth closed, don’t talk with your mouth full, and push your knife and fork together to signal you are finished eating. She wasn’t following Emily Post to the letter, but pretty close. If only that “Book of Etiquette” could be handed out in hospital delivery rooms today.

Don’t Whine– When I was 22, living in Chicago and complaining to my mom about not being qualified for a certain job I wanted, she said, “If you don’t have the skills, go get the skills.” It may have seemed a little tough love-ish at the time, but these words have propelled me forward again and again over the years, resulting in quite an eclectic and useful set of skills. Now, whenever I hear people whine (including myself) I realize how unattractive it is and how blessed I was to have a mom that wouldn't indulge me in my self-pity.

Be Considerate – My mom didn’t just teach manners, she also excelled in teaching the lesson of being considerate of others. Having awareness of those around you is an all-important life skill. When you are mindful of others that means you are paying attention. And when you are paying attention, you are absorbing everything life has to offer. You are also doing things instilled in you by your mother, like calling when you are going to be late and checking in when you arrive at your destination after a trip to say you made it safely. Or else! So many people don’t realize how important these little gestures can be. Think about this the next time you walk into a building and the person coming out not only doesn’t hold the door to let you pass, they don’t even acknowledge your existence. You will be wishing that there were more moms out there like mine.

Be Yourself – When I was 19 and everyone but me seemed to know what they were going to be when they grew up, I cried to my mom, “Why can’t I be like Liz?” Liz was my best friend who even at 19 seemed steady and sure of her course. To this my mom replied in the way that only the wisest of mothers could, “Because you’re special. Your life is going to be more difficult than Liz’s but it’s going to be so much more interesting.” I guess she was prescient because Liz went on to become a drug addict, then a born again Christian, and eventually unhappily married. My life has indeed been challenging (though apart from Marcus’ death usually due to self-inflicted reasons). And my mom was right, my life has also been infinitely interesting. And still is. I credit this to my mom who didn’t insist I follow the crowd and always take the “safe” path. She encouraged me to step to the beat of my own drum, no matter how wild the rhythm.

Be Independent – I am more fiercely independent than may be good for me, but then…maybe not. I think “self-reliant” may be a better term here. And there is nothing wrong with that. My mom let me and my siblings have free run of the kitchen, allowing us to make cookies and no-bake cheesecakes on our own. Taking it a step further, she let me and my sister take the bus downtown to shop for our own school clothes. We were not older than 8 or 10, but we were granted both freedom and trust. She granted me an extra dose of that freedom and trust when I wanted to run away to the Oregon coast at the age of 16. Instead of me having to flee without permission, she took a deep breath and said, “We trust we’ve done a good job raising you. It’s time for you to test your wings.” She didn’t exhale until I returned home safe and happy a month later. I don’t know of any other parents who have that much faith in their children. I credit my mom and her confidence in me at that tender young age as one of my greatest life-shaping moments.

Be Creative – My mom signed up all five of us kids for just about every lesson and activity known to mankind. We had lessons in ballet, tap, gymnastics, jazz, tennis, golf, swimming, diving, cello, violin, guitar, piano, pottery, painting, knitting, sewing. We (well, my brothers) competed in sports of football, track, baseball, basketball, wrestling. We were cheerleaders. We were in school plays. We were camp counselors. We were busy. My mom not only encouraged us to try everything, she also drove us there. I am grateful for being so well-rounded, exposed to such a variety of activities, and for being given the opportunity to choose which, if any, I wanted to pursue. She didn’t push, she merely offered the path. This alone makes me acutely aware of how privileged my upbringing was and how dedicated my mother was to making sure we had a good life.

I could go on and on about how much I learned from my mom and how grateful I am to her. But I have to go autograph some books now. And while I’m here in New Orleans talking to book store owners about my forthcoming memoir, my mom will be riding in the back of a limousine with my siblings and my aunt and uncle. They will be on their way to her birthday dinner in Los Angeles. And if all goes according to plan, my sister will open my blog on her iPhone and read this story to my mom. The greatest, hippest, most generous and caring mom in the world.

Happy Birthday, Marie Howard. You rock.

My parents on their 50th anniversary last year.

The Birthing Process of a Book

2012-01-12T17:36:00.000-08:00

Get this thing out of me already!

I've never had a baby but I can only imagine it is similar to getting a book published. You conceive the idea, the seed is fertilized, and after some weeks of development, you are shopping around the proposal. Once it sells and you have the book contract it's as if you have moved into the second trimester, that safe zone in which can show off your ultrasound images of the growing little bean with some confidence and pride. Or in the case of a book, announce your excitement over your book deal on your blog and on Facebook. Then, after the writing phase and completing the manuscript, now begins the editing phase, the equivalent of having ongoing check ups with your gyno, who is in this case is not a doctor but your editor at the publishing company.

I'm in the third trimester now and I can feel that damn baby--I mean, book--kicking and screaming inside my womb. LET. ME. OUT. No amount of ice cream will soothe this little monster. It is impatient and ready and wanting to see the world. It wants to go on a book tour. It wants to climb onto the book shelves in stores across the country. It wants to be read and praised and told it is such a good little baby. Oh, what an adorable thing. Aren't you so cute and funny. You are the best baby--er, book--ever. Coo coo coo.

This time last year I was sitting in my bathrobe and Ugg(ly) boots at my kitchen table for days on end, click-clacking away on my laptop, my story spilling out onto the pages. (Ask anyone in Eldon, I rarely ever got dressed.) The only thing I was anxious about was meeting my deadline. I needn't have worried; I delivered a month early. One year later, I am sitting in my office in front of my gorgeous new Vermont Castings fireplace, and I am experiencing a new kind of anxiety. It's called "What if no one likes my book?" Which must be akin to "What if my baby is born with six fingers?"

My latest ultrasound came in the form of an email from my author friend Leigh Michaels. (She is the author of "The Wedding Affair" and "On Writing Romance.”) She had just read an advance copy of my book and said, “I honestly can't remember the last time I read any book through at a sitting, but I could not put ‘Making Piece’ down. It's wonderful. It's poignant and painful and honest and funny and unexpected and absolutely gripping. And after reading the book I dreamed about pie.”

I was buoyed beyond measure by her glowing report. Very up. But a few days later I heard from my book publicist that several key bookstores had declined having me do book readings, because I'm "unknown." It's like the kid isn't even born yet and is already getting turned down for the pre-school wait list. Very down.

These ups and downs are surely only the beginning. Wait until the official book reviewers get their cynical, scathing paws on this thing. "That is the ugliest baby I've ever seen," they might say. "Just look at that weird patch of hair above her eye [i.e.: glaring typo] on page 89."

What do I do with myself during these last ten weeks of gestation? What can I do to keep the fears and doubts--and imaginary bad reviews--at bay? What do pregnant mothers do when the final stage approaches?

You know what? As long as I was stuck on the theme, I actually looked it up!

Here's what they say:

Buy any baby items still needed
Prepare all baby first aid and emergency items
Print and fill out emergency sheets
Get a low-maintenance haircut
Finish painting nursery
Get car seat inspected
Pack hospital bag

So now I have a check list to keep me busy until my book is born. Seriously. I actually do need to buy some champagne (to celebrate my newborn's arrival). I just printed out my list of passwords (been meaning to do a computer back up too). I'll schedule a haircut for the first of March. I'm going to buy some paint (I was already planning on re-painting my bedroom). Get car (and RV) inspected. Check. And pack. Yeah, okay. I will be traveling the entire month of April--introducing off my offspring--and it's not too early to get organized.

Like any expectant mother, I'm sure I will forget I ever experienced this period of madness once I've given birth. I will be so overjoyed by my new arrival that I won't remember the labor pains. And the good news about having a book instead of a baby is....no diaper changing required.

Iowa Caucus Mania

2012-01-03T15:46:00.000-08:00

In spite of this brilliant parody by Mike Luckovich, I was surprised
that none of the politicians showed up on my doorstep.
They missed an ideal photo op!

I maintain that pie is not about politics. "Pie is non-partisan," I have been known to insist. "It is meant to be shared, to build community, and spread good will. Pie knows no cultural boundaries." Thus, I normally avoid any discussion of the subject. But as I am living in Iowa during the 2012 Iowa Caucus, the subject of politics cannot be ignored. Admittedly the media buzz is rather exciting. I mean, to have our humble state be the center of such acute interest with top level journalists from all over the country doesn't happen every day. That said, the story here has become less about the politicians and more about the media itself.

There was an article published in The Atlantic in early December. It was written by Stephen Bloom, a University of Iowa professor who has lived in Iowa for 20 years. According to his piece, he feels Iowa is not representative of the diversity in America and therefore shouldn't hold such power over choosing a president.

States Bloom, "Whether a schizophrenic, economically-depressed, and some say, culturally-challenged state like Iowa should host the first grassroots referendum to determine who will be the next president isn't at issue. It's been this way since 1972, and there are no signs that it's going to change. In a perfect world, no way would Iowa ever be considered representative of America, or even a small part of it. Iowa's not representative of much. There are few minorities, no sizable cities, and the state's about to lose one of its five seats in the U.S. House because its population is shifting; any growth is negligible. Still, thanks to a host of nonsensical political precedents, whoever wins the Iowa Caucuses in January will very likely have a 50 percent chance of being elected president 11 months later. Go figure."

Ouch! No wonder people are up in arms over his story. (See Kyle Munson's story in the Des Moines Register for more.)

Instead of being outraged by Bloom's article, I first stopped to remember the tenets I live by: "The Four Agreements" that come from a book of the same name by Don Miguel Ruiz.

1. Don't make assumptions.
2. Always do your best.
3. Be impeccable with your word.
4. Do not take it personally.

Therefore, I did not take the writer's words personally. They are merely the opinion of one man, a man who clearly doesn't appreciate the countless advantages, positive aspects, and the abundance of heartfelt kindness of living in the Heartland.

Mr. Bloom is from San Francisco, a city that, in my experience, has its own issues. When I lived there someone left a note on the windshield of my car while parked at the Marina Safeway. Written on a scrap of a brown paper grocery bag, it said: "You asshole. You should be reported to the humane society for leaving your dog in your car." What this righteous passerby did not account for is that I had just taken my well-cared-for, very lucky dog (rescued from a shelter, no less) on a two-hour wilderness hike, I was only in the grocery store for a mere 10 minutes, there was a dish of water in the car, the windows were left sufficiently cracked open, and the day was perfectly cool. This makes me an asshole? Really?

Contrast this to Iowa, where it is so safe I could have tied up my dog in front of the store instead of locking it in the car. That note and the attitude it portrays is one of the reasons I have no desire to live in that part of the country again.

And in spite of trying not to make assumptions, as well as being impeccable with my word (always remembering "The Four Agreements"), I cannot refrain from suggesting that perhaps Mr. Bloom is simply unhappy living in this "landlocked, flyover state." He ought to consider moving back to Northern California instead of remaining here with the "hicks and meth addicts." Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. Or better yet, in the spirit of Grant Wood who said, "I had to go to France to appreciate Iowa," maybe Bloom should visit Paris. I can only imagine how critical he would be of the people and lifestyle there.

After having several discussions with friends who were disgruntled by Bloom's controversial story, I was heartened to see a clever and well-produced rebuttal. Below is Scott Siepker with his now-viral video on YouTube (see below). In a concise and deadpan comedic way, he reminds the world that Iowans are not only well educated, forerunners in progressive politics, and the inventors of the computer, they are, in a word, nice.

To have people like that influencing who is going to become the next president is all right with me.

I haven't lived in Iowa since I was 17, so I have never voted here. And while I won't be voting in tonight's caucus, I will be attending to educate myself on what an Iowa caucus is all about. And after that, once the media has packed up and left, the state can get back to its normal way of life and I can get back to thinking about my favorite non-controversial, non-political subject: pie.

Starting the Year with an Empty Box

2012-01-02T10:37:00.000-08:00

Instead of making New Year's resolutions, I decided to tackle a few projects -- the ones I've had on my To Do list for way too long -- and get them done BEFORE the New Year. One of the big ones was emptying my "Box From Hell." This was a cardboard box that contained the piles of paperwork that regularly accumulate on my desk. Whenever I had company I would just dump the latest pile into the Box-from-Hell and shove the box into the coat closet. Naturally, over the course of the year, the box filled up and the paperwork in it was a complete disorganized mess. Over the past few days, I managed to sort, throw, file and empty its contents, which was a huge, gratifying accomplishment and a freeing way to start off the new year.

During the course of filing, however, I dug into other old Boxes-from-Hell and found more even more disorganized piles of paperwork. More throwing and shredding occurred -- and a lot of reminiscing. There were scraps of paper and old receipts from my desk in Stuttgart, Germany. (Old indeed as I lived there from 2003 to 2006.) There were photos of and hand-written notes from Marcus. And there was a magazine article I wrote about how Marcus picked me up for our first date on his motorcycle. Indicating further progress in my journey through grief, I could read the story about our über-romantic courtship with sweet nostalgia instead of guttural sobs. Now that is progress! (The article is below. You might need to zoom in to read it. And, of course, you can read more about my romance with Marcus in my book when it comes out in THREE MORE MONTHS!)

Cleaning and organizing my files before the calendar changed to 2012 was an excellent ritual, a sort of rite of passage to make space for whatever new things lie ahead. According to Zen wisdom, you have to "empty your cup before you can refill it again." I say you have to empty your box. I can't wait to see what it fills up with next. (Besides bills and insurance documents, I mean.)

Grief: A Progress Report

2011-12-29T21:01:00.000-08:00

Eldon, Iowa's McHaffey Opera House Thrift Store transforms
into a magical "Winter Wanderland" at Christmas --
but what did they do with all of Marcus' clothes?

With the holidays here again (my, how fast a year goes by!) and H gone for good, I’ve been experiencing a collision of past and present. As I try to make sense of what the hell my 4-month relationship with H was all about and how all that is left of it is…nothing, I have been simultaneously reflecting on my life at this same time last year.

This time last year I blogged about bicycling in the basement, about how my grief was stored in my cells and how physical exertion dislodged the sorrow that was burrowing in my cellular membranes, to the point I couldn’t exercise anywhere but in the safety of my house. I wrote about clearing space in the basement to set up the bike track stand and how that effort resulted in me letting go of a few of Marcus’ beautiful pieces of clothing. I didn’t handle the letting go with grace. I couldn’t even get to the post office without having a complete meltdown – as if sending Marcus’ cashmere coat to my brother in Seattle was reliving Marcus’ death itself.

With the smoke still clearing from the detonation of H, I have made the surprising discovery that grief – as if it were an entity of its own – is no longer dominating my life. (For the record, it has been 2-1/3 years since Marcus died.)

It only just occurred to me that I haven’t written about my grief in a while. That’s because when H was here, living in my “teeny house in the middle of nowhere” (as he put it) for the past three months, there was not time nor space for shedding my daily tears over my late husband or writing letters to him in my journal or looking through our photo albums of our weddings, our European motorcycle trips, our life in Mexico, and our wilderness adventures. There was no privacy for expressing my sadness over losing Marcus, and certainly no blogging about the subject for god’s sake, not with a tall strapping man around.

With H around I didn’t ride my bike in the basement (How could I indulge in that, especially when I had even started calling it my “Crying Machine?!”) Instead, H and I spent long afternoons riding the beach cruiser bikes on the flat gravel roads -- with our destination a barn, where we fed carrots to a family of goats. (Happiness is feeling the wind in your face – and admiring the sexy ass of the guy on the bike next to you.)

And really, there was no need to cry, no ability to feel sad, when there was nightly entertainment in my living room. Letting H’s guinea pig out of his cage resulted in hilarious circus-like performances of guinea pig, H’s Chow and my two terriers chasing each other around and under the furniture. Seeing how a little one-pound rodent could intimidate three dogs made us howl with laughter. The only tears were the ones from laughing too hard.

It is also of note that when H first arrived, in my attempt to make him feel at home – and in my attempt to make room for new love in my life (both literally and figuratively) – I took down my shrine of Marcus’ framed photos in my living room and next to my bed. I also loaded up the rest of Marcus’ belongings (minus a few very special items, like his Lederhosen, Geiger sweater, Haferl boots, and German hunting boots) and hauled them off to Eldon’s thrift store at the McHaffey Opera House. I even donated the clothes that still held his scent – I had sealed them in a plastic garbage bag and because H was standing next to me when I put them in the washing machine I didn’t get to bury my nose in Marcus’ shirts and breathe in his scent one last time. It was an impetuous, “just get it over with” move and though I felt sick about it, I kept my mind on the future – I was making room for new love, damn it! – and pretended to H that I was fine with letting go. “I’m ready to give away his stuff,” I told H, while secretly trying to convince myself it was true. If only I could have just smelled his shirts one last time…

My relationship with H ended a week before Christmas. One could consider this to be bad timing. But it worked out well for me. True, being alone for the holidays could have sent me into a panic. I could have felt the need to run away from Eldon for fear of feeling isolated in my “teeny house in the middle of nowhere” (insert eye rolling here). Or I could have embraced being home and simply hibernated like I did last year. But here’s the thing: The weather has been unseasonably, freakishly warm and sunny. It feels more like May than December. And that has made all the difference.

With balmy weather beckoning me out, not only did I spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day making the rounds to several friends’ houses, I also did something I haven’t done in a very long time. I went for a run. Outside.

Just this morning, I laced up my sneakers and hit the gravel road, following the Des Moines River downstream. It felt so good to move, to breathe in the country air, to feel the sun on my face that I ran at least six miles. I didn’t break down in tears. I didn’t feel the weight of grief bearing down on me. I didn’t have to walk home carrying a heavy load of sadness. It’s hard to be sad when it’s 50 degrees and sunny on a late December Iowa morning and you still have the strength and athleticism to go for a long run after an extended absence from the sport. And it’s especially hard to be sad when you are accompanied by a view of bald eagles soaring over the river.

The weather will inevitably turn cold. January will surely bring snow and ice. But I am ready for it. I am no longer riding my bike in the basement. I moved the bike and its track stand upstairs to the top floor. It’s in what I call my “dressing room,” in front of the “other” Gothic window that mirrors the famous one on the opposite end of the house. It’s another step away from the darkness and toward the light. The back window has a beautiful view of my big yard, several rows of pine trees, and open sky. But instead of staying inside, I know now that I can also put on my fleece tights and gloves, and keep running – snow or not – outside. And that is significant progress.

Part of Marcus' mini shrine

I don’t have anything more of Marcus’ that I will be taking to the post office or thrift store. It took over two years, and H moving in, but I have let go of the bulk of his belongings. Whatever is left I am keeping. Including an unwashed bath towel of Marcus’ packed in one of his boxes. (You didn’t think I was that stoic, did you?! I knew there was still something to sniff when I loaded that washing machine.) When I need a hit of his scent I know where to get it. And whenever I want to look at his pictures, well, I just have to look across my desk. With H gone, Marcus' shrine has been resurrected. Albeit a scaled down version, proving further progress.

As for making sense of H, I can already see how that relationship served as therapy, stripping away yet another layer of grief. Time heals, they say. And if that time was filled with someone who helped keep me from indulging in the daily sadness, someone who kept me from focusing on the past, someone who helped me to laugh again, then yes, absolutely, spending four months with H was worth whatever disappointment and confusion he left behind.

Still, it’s not as if my grief packed up and drove off with H. It’s just that I can see now how it has lessened, how even though grief is still present (and I understand that it will be for the rest of my life) it doesn’t have to hold me back. Oh, I still cry over Marcus. Even when H was here I still had my moments where I hid in my closet and let the tears flow. But the tears don’t debilitate me like they used to.

And so, with past and present now thoroughly examined, the nuclear fusion contained and wrapped up as if in a pretty Christmas package, it’s time to look to the future. Bring on the New Year. I have a feeling it’s going to be a good one.

Unveiling my Book Cover!

2011-12-20T20:32:00.000-08:00

Here it is, the final design for the hard cover book jacket of "Making Piece: A Memoir of Love, Loss and Pie."

But wait, there's more. Check out the back!

It reads: “Beth Howard describes with warmth and wit how the bitter events in life are set off by the sweet ones — much like the ingredients of a good recipe. Making Piece is a moving account of love and loss.”

–Jeannette Walls, New York Times bestselling author of The Glass Castle

Yes, that's right! Jeannette Walls, after reading an advance copy, said something nice about my book! I am beyond thrilled and, yes, grateful for her kind and generous words and the fact those words will now grace my book cover.

Oh, and here's my new author head shot, which will be on the inside book flap. Thanks to photographer Kathryn Gamble for making look waaaaay more glamorous in the photo than I look in real life. In real life I am either dressed in my overalls with my hair in braids and no makeup or worse, when the pie stand is closed, I don't bother getting dressed at all!

The publishing date is April 1, 2012, but the book will actually be on shelves March 27. Three more months to go. You can pre-order it now from several booksellers, including Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Books a Million. Thanks (in advance) for buying a copy!

Even If You Don’t Feel Like It, Make Gratitude Pie

2011-12-19T19:27:00.000-08:00

Some of you know that H and I broke up. Some of you know that because I posted a blog last week telling the somber, gut-twisting story about how he drove away leaving behind only tire tracks in the snow and how I stood there sobbing in my bathrobe and boots, and how I spent the next hours and days waiting and waiting for the snow to melt, for those tell-tale tracks to disappear, because they kept reminding me of how he exited my life so abruptly.

Some of you also noticed that I took that blog post down. “You should put that post back up,” some of you wrote. “He took advantage of you. He was selfish,” others wrote. One friend wrote, “You should have been much harder on him than you were.”

But my mother’s voice reproached me. “That’s not charitable,” her age-old recording in my head kept reminding me.

Understanding that the definition of charitable is “kind or lenient in one's attitude towards others,” then yes, my mother was right. I also continued to hear my mom’s other lifelong reproach saying, “You tell people too much.” Based on my blog and my forthcoming memoir, obviously I ignore this voice 99.9 percent of the time. But in my heart I didn’t feel right about the “snow tracks” story. It wasn’t charitable and what happened between H and me didn’t need to be shared so publicly. I took the post down.

A few days later, my sister gave me an early Christmas present. A Gratitude Journal. It was not lost on me that she gave me this “thoughtful gift” in direct response to my excessive complaining to her—mostly about H. "Wah. Wah. Wah," is all I said over and over. (God, I can be such a whiner!)

The Gratitude Journal contains an introduction discussing how to be happy, how being grateful and expressing that gratitude is a key to feeling good about life. The author states that she wrote in her gratitude journal every day for six weeks and saw positive results, and that she really felt better. About everything.

Well, I wrote in my new gratitude journal one day—just one page—and the results were instantaneous. It was like I was a wind-up toy marching in the wrong direction and someone picked me up by the back of the neck, turned me around and set me moving in the opposite direction, the one away from the negative and instead toward the positive.

Gratitude -- and happiness -- can be found in the simple things,
like a spectacular winter sunset in Eldon, Iowa.

Of course I am disappointed and down about the sudden unraveling of my relationship with H (one week before Christmas, no less!) And unfortunately the break up dredges up deeper fears: I am afraid I will never find love again. And because I am still grieving Marcus I worry that I will never be a desirable partner to anyone. But now I can and will put a stop all that negative thinking and remember gratitude. I have so much to be grateful for! My loving friends, my close family, my scruffy dogs, my adorable (and affordable) house, my good health, my soon-to-be published book, and so much more. And, really, truly, I am grateful for H—for four months of great snuggling, laughter, hiking, traveling, my introduction to the South (and grits and biscuits), morning dog walks, shared meals, shared stories, wonderful companionship and friendship.

A full moon rising over my favorite cornfield is something to be grateful for.

And so, the blog post of last week will remain sealed in a vault. Moreover, I have told my friend, the one who said I should have been harder on him, “I have no reason to say anything unkind about H. He is a good person and in spite of our relationship not being what I had hoped it could be, he still gave me a lot. And I am grateful.”

Gratitude feels good.

Pie and the Operating Room

2011-12-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

I was just in LA for a medical treatment. Nothing major, just a part of a body part needed to be removed. I wouldn’t normally write about such matters (then again, I write about every other private and personal matter), but pie features prominently so I couldn’t pass up sharing this funny tale of my experience on an operating room table.

I was in the pre-op room, dressed in my cotton hospital gown, when a tall, intelligent looking blond nurse came in to attend to me. Small talk ensued and I happened to ask the nurse, Kate, where she was from.

“Keokuk, Iowa,” she answered.

I bolted upright from my gurney, nearly pulling the IV needle out of my hand. “You’re kidding! I’m from Iowa. I live in Eldon.”

“I’m going to move back someday,” Kate said. “I’m from a family of seven kids and they’re all still in the area. I go back a few times a year. All my friends there think I’m so glamorous because I live in LA – they think of Hollywood – but I try to set them straight and remind them it’s still just me.”

My mom, who accompanied me to my appointment, sat there quietly by my bedside, not saying a word. She has no desire to go back to Iowa. She and my dad moved to LA ten years ago, when three out of five of her kids (including me) were living in LA at the time. She loves living in California, loves the people, the energy, and especially the ocean view from their waterfront apartment.

“I loved living in California and I certainly never thought I would end up in Iowa,” I told Kate. “But I am really happy there.”

“You bake pie?” Kate continued. “I love pie. I went on RAGBRAI this past summer and ate pie every day along the bike route. All those church ladies had made so much pie.”

Angela, the fair-skinned beauty who was smearing a sample of my blood onto a microscope slide interrupted and said, “Excuse me. We need to focus on the surgery.”

“Right,” said Kate. “Okay, please confirm your name, birth date, any allergies….” And then, she couldn’t stop herself. She looked up from my chart and asked, “What kind of pies do you like to make?

“Mostly apple,” I said, sneaking a knowing smile up at Angela who gave up on trying to steer our conversation.

Then my doctor appeared from behind the curtain. Dressed in a flannel shirt and a down jacket, he put his hand on my arm and greeted me warmly. I introduced him to my mom. “Mom, this is Dr. D. I’ve been seeing him for over twenty years. This is the most consistent relationship I’ve ever had in my life. He is the reason I flew half way across the country just to have this procedure done. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.” I added, “One of his many attributes is that he doesn’t buy into drama. You tell him you’re in excruciating pain and he just shrugs. “We were just talking about pie,” I told him.

“Apple is my favorite,” he quickly replied. “The Dutch kind with the crumbly topping. The double crust kind just has too much crust.”

“You like the crumble topping because it’s made with brown sugar and butter,” I told him. “My pie teacher [Mary Spellman] always told me, ‘You can’t go wrong with brown sugar and butter.’”
I was eventually wheeled off to the operating room and the last thing I remember saying to Dr. D as the anesthesia was pumped into my veins was “I’ve never seen you in scrubs.” And then, I was out.

About an hour later I was nudged awake in the middle of having a bad dream about H. (You know something is out of balance in your relationship when your subconscious is trying to work things out under the influence of heavy sedatives!) I noticed I was no longer in the operating room, but in a different room. Dr. D was standing by my bed, once again dressed in his flannel shirt and down jacket. “I was having a bad dream about my boyfriend,” I dumbly said in my groggy state.

“Everything went well. You did great. You can get dressed now. Come back in a few months for a follow up and hopefully one of these days I’ll get to have one of your pies.”
I laid there for a while trying to collect my bearings, observing how my body was feeling – surprising fine, as if it hadn’t just been invaded by scalpels and tubes -- and imagined how the conversation must have gone between the surgical team as they worked on me:

She bakes pies, she lives in Iowa, she has a book coming out in April, I read the opening pages on her website, interesting story, what’s your favorite pie, my grandmother used to make a really good coconut pie that I loved, how’s her blood pressure, I can’t believe she flew all the way here from Iowa, she should open up a pie shop here, LA needs more pie, I’m going to buy her book, almost done here, just one more stitch, I’m going to tell my sister in Keokuk about her, did you know she lives in that Grant Wood house from American Gothic, that’s so Americana, I really like pie.

Of course I’ll never know what they said. But I do know this: everyone, everywhere I go, lights up when you start talking about pie. And there, in a Santa Monica surgery center on Wilshire Boulevard, it was no exception. What better subject to put a patient at ease, what better way to connect with strangers, like with the doctors and nurses into whose hands you are putting your life. It was as if the conversation transformed the cold and sterile room and instead filled it, warmed it with the scent of butter, apples and cinnamon. It proves the point yet again that even when just talking about it and not even eating it, pie comforts, heals and nourishes the soul. Pie connects people and their stories, their histories, their hearts. Even in the most unusual of times and circumstances, like at 6:30 a.m. in an operating room.

Next time I’m in LA I will definitely be returning to the surgery center and am already greatly looking forward to it. Why? Because next time the surgical team won’t be cutting into me, they’ll be cutting into the apple pies I deliver to them as a thank you. I can already imagine the crumble topping melting in their mouths.

All I Need to Keep Me Warm

2011-12-13T12:15:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend left town, but not to worry. I don't need no stinkin' man to keep me warm. How is that, you ask? Because someone else has already moved into the American Gothic House. He's strong, solid, heavy, hardworking and black. And, oh baby, he is hot.

"He" is a Vermont Castings gas stove.

In the same way that Kohler was excited about putting in a new-but-made-to-look-old cast iron apron-front sink in my kitchen, Vermont Castings jumped at the chance to install one of their stoves. And I jumped back because I had been lamenting ever since I moved into the Gothic House a year and a half ago that what this house really needs is a fireplace or a wood burning stove. That's how the house was originally heated, back in 1882, though the chimney has long since been sealed. But hey, I'll take gas. No problem.

One little catch (two if you count having to ask my landlord for permission) is that they had to drill a little hole in the original wood plank floor of the house to run a gas line up from the basement. To watch them removing the inch-wide round plug of wood -- a piece of American history! -- made my hackles go up. They might has well have been using white-out on the Declaration of Independence. Or giving the Statue of Liberty a nose job. (Though as far as I know, both of things might have actually been done.) But once the blue and yellow flames sprung to life and the heat started permeating the drafty old house, I didn't give another thought to tampering with a national historic site.

Vermont Castings sent their Stardance model, the smaller of their vent-free stoves. Short and squatty, black iron with a dull finish, it looks so authentically old it might as well have come straight off the set from "Little House on the Prairie." Except that it's brand new. And it runs on gas. And it heats my house to the point it feels like the tropics. I function best in 80 degree weather.

With my new stove, my fingers don't get cold when I type at my computer for hours on end. And it gets so hot upstairs in my bedroom, I don't miss having a man next to me. (Okay, I admit, that's not completely true.) I've also noticed my two terriers are spending more time in my office with me, taking longer naps. In front of the stove.

Bring on the winter, I say. It may be a long one, but at least it's going to be a cozy one.

Tire Tracks in the Snow

2011-12-12T19:20:00.000-08:00

NOTE: I posted this story twice and took it down twice. But apparently enough people saw it, liked it and even wanted to forward it to their friends, so due to ~~public pressure~~ popular demand I am posting the story again. Third time's a charm. I would say "Sorry, H," but H has since admitted he was texting other women, so I feel I have the right to post this without apology. It goes to show you, ALWAYS TRUST YOUR INTUITION.

-- -- -- -- --

This is what it looks like when the man you've been dating for the past four months -- and living with for the past three -- abruptly decides to pack up his chow and his guinea pig and leave in the pre-dawn hours of an Iowa winter morning.

As he drives away you stand there in your boots and your bathrobe, sobbing, wondering what it was you did that caused him to go. Was it because you nagged him too much about doing dishes? You admit that you did badger him about this. You also remember that while he first offered to buy you a dishwasher all he managed in the end was to buy paper plates. Or did he leave because you complained about him watching too much TV? You never wanted TV in your house, but in your effort to accommodate this new relationship you relented. You relented so much that when the cable TV you had installed didn't offer his favorite sports channel you upgraded to satellite, complete with that little dish mounted to the roof of your house which now interferes with the view out your bedroom window. Regardless, you wish every time you look out the window that the damn snow would melt so you don't have to be reminded of how he drove out of your life.

You spend your day so out of sorts you can't get any work done. All you can do is call everyone you know who will remind you that you are fabulous and smart and funny and beautiful. This is helpful because the man who you lived with, the one you had thought had such potential for a future, the one you thought you were falling in love with, the one who drove off at 5:50 a.m. in the snow, had never once told you that you were fabulous, smart, funny and beautiful. You do remember, however, that he called you "cute" exactly three times and how you responded, "Cute is not the same as beautiful."

You just want the day to pass, time to pass, you want the damn snow to melt. You want your heart to feel at peace, you want your stomach to stop feeling so sick and knotted. But especially you want to look at his iPhone again, the one with all those text messages from all those women friends of his, the ones he couldn't bring himself to tell that not only did he have a girlfriend, he was living with her. You're not sure--because you were in such a panicked state for snooping in the first place (something you vowed you would never stoop so low to do)--but you think you saw an exchange of messages that revealed he was rushing back home to meet up with a woman who couldn't wait to see him. If only you could read those messages again you could see you were wrong, that it was nothing of the sort, and put your mind at ease. Still, you will never be sure because he is driving to a place 21 hours away and he is never going to let you see his phone again. Moreover, you have the feeling you are never going to see him again.

Your friends continue to call and email and prop you up and tell you it's for the best that he left, that you rushed into this too fast, that they were never really sure about him anyway.

And though the final outcome has yet to reveal itself, you begin to feel better, more grounded, even a little grateful to have the house to yourself again. You pack up the shampoo bottles he left in the shower and wonder how soon you can cancel the satellite TV. And eventually, thankfully, the snow finally melts.

My Unlikely Return to Catholic School...To Teach a Pie Class

2011-11-19T09:47:00.000-08:00

Meg and Me, From pleated plaid skirts to pie T-shirts

My friend Meg asked me if I would teach a pie class as an auction prize donated for her kids' Catholic school. I could have considered the cons -- that I nearly got kicked out of Catholic high school and no longer consider myself a Catholic (I'm waaaaay too much a feminist for that!) -- and that I would have to drive an hour and a half each way to Des Moines for the class. But it was Meg asking. Meg and I went to high school together (yes, the Catholic one). We came of age in our pleated plaid skirts and knee socks. We ditched classes and in spite of the closed-campus policy -- detentions be damned -- skipped out to McDonald's for French fries and milk shakes. We religiously attended cheerleading camp and keg parties. Fast forward 35 (THIRTY-FIVE, really?!?!?) years: Meg so generously hosted me (and my two terriers) for an entire month last summer during my pie judging gig at the Iowa State Fair -- after not having even seen her since our 25th class reunion five years earlier. One cannot, under any circumstances, say no to a friend as generous as that!

This is how I came to give a pie lesson to 10 women, all mothers of students attending the Sacred Heart School.

I don't know which of the women actually gave the winning bid on the pie class, all I know is that Meg and I honed in on a date, Meg secured use of the school's commercial kitchen (OMG, now I REALLY want a commercial kitchen for the Pitchfork Pie Stand!!!), Meg got 50 pounds of apples donated by fellow school parent Larry Lofreddo, I drove up from Eldon, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Every evening pie class is assisted by alcohol. Even ones held in Catholic schools. Just like old times. :-)

While the ladies (pictured above: Meg, Stacie, Jill and Katherine) were more than happy to have a night away from their kids, they also couldn't wait to get home with their freshly baked pies. More so, it was the kids who were impatient. Their teen and pre-teen offspring sent text messages throughout the evening asking, "Is the pie ready yet? When are you coming home with the pie?"

Tavé, above, was all smiles after learning that she really could master making pie dough when she rolled out a perfect-looking crust. But don't think I didn't remind them (repeatedly): Pie is not about perfection!
This is Jill with her pie ready for the oven. It's the boost in baking confidence and the excitement over their gorgeous creations, visible here in Jill's big smile, that make me enjoy teaching pie baking so much. It's that "pie it forward" thing again.

We had enough dough and apples leftover to make some mini pies. Note a few are "free form" rustic-style. Because these little ones finished baking before the big ones, we were able to sample the goods. And we were not disappointed!

A little brown, but still beautiful.

The convection oven was one of industrial size -- and strength. Not realizing the oven was turbo-charged, the normal 20 minute browning stage took half the time. We should have checked the progress sooner. The upshot was that we shaved a good half hour off the total baking time so everyone could get home a little earlier. It was a school night, after all. And as for me, I still had to drive back to Eldon.

Every pie class ends with a Victory Shot. And victorious, they were.

I left energized and content, satisfied that I had done a good deed. If only those nuns from our old Catholic high school could see me now.

Guest Blog: Pie Lady Goes South, Part 3 - by H

2011-11-15T18:50:00.000-08:00

Pie Lady Visits the Mountain South, Part 3 (and Final Installment) -- As Told by H

So...we are now back in the Iowa plains metropolis of Eldon, and it’s time to reflect upon a California Yankee’s introduction to the Southern Appalachians. Of course, I knew going in that this wasn’t going to be a match made by anyone associated with heaven. If there was a version of eHarmony that matched people with places, Beth and the Georgia mountains would never even make it to the point where pictures are exchanged. The mountains are too steep and the hollows too confining. And the hunters seem to outnumber the animals (except, of course, inside our cabin.) And then there are the Confederate flags...

But we did have some adventurous hikes and see some nice scenery. (Pictured: Amicalola Falls)

And there were some very nice meals at Cucina Rustica

And Harvest On Main

And for the pie baker supreme, there is the fact that Gilmer County Georgia is the apple capital of the South, and the orchards have some superb pie apples.

And where else can you get your picture taken with a stuffed bear (pronounced “barre”) inside a place that sells apple cider donuts, apple fritters, fried pies in 15 flavors, stone ground grits and candy and caramel apples? All this plus a petting zoo and an animated hillbilly on a tractor.

But despite all of these wondrous advantages, Beth is a reluctant visitor to the mountain South. Much as I would be visiting a hippy commune. Mind you, she isn’t a General Sherman who’d like to burn the place off the map, but she just didn’t find a connection to this craggy, homespun region. But then, she didn’t have the same introduction to it that I did.

Shortly after moving to East Tennessee years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. The good (southern) folks at University of Tennessee Medical Center had to carve me up and put me back together again. Then they had to essentially poison all of the cancer out of my body without killing me. I’d never met nicer or more caring people. And in the year after I was released from the hospital I rented a mountain cabin across from a small lake. I’d never seen or experienced such a calm and serene place. It helped me put myself back together and continue on with life. So for me, the mountain South will always tug at my heartstrings despite its shortcomings and throwback ways.

And I won’t give up on getting Beth to look at the area through a different lens, to feel just a little bit of what I feel. For there is always next fall, and the promise of a cabin with 10 or fewer stuffed bears and moose, no “Stairs of Death” and a road that isn’t like living through a daily episode of The Thrillbillies.

Guest Blog: Pie Lady Goes South, Part 2 - by H

2011-11-12T09:51:00.000-08:00

The Pie Lady Visits the Mountain South -- (Part 2) – as told by H

If you replaced “banjo” with “gunshots” this would perfectly represent Beth’s sentiments about hiking in these parts. It’s the height of deer season here in Georgia, and at times it sounds like the civil war is still ongoing. Although Beth and I share our Midwestern roots (Beth Iowa, me Ohio), I have lived south of the Mason-Dixon line for over 20 years, and I am well acquainted with the Southern Appalachians. I even lived in Top O’World Tennessee at one point, a place where a neighbor once showed up at my door with a large jar of canned bear meat.

Beth however, (in-spite of her many world travels) is pretty much a neophyte in Dixie. She gaped in slack-jawed horror at the 30-foot-long confederate flag waving in the breeze over the local Rebel Market and gas station. I explained that the owner of this establishment would likely explain to her that the flag is an expression of “heritage not hate,” but to say that she remained unconvinced would be a notable understatement...

But...Beth is quickly finding that there are good as well as gun-toting rebel elements in N. GA. Yesterday I took her to breakfast at a place I was clued into by a local several years ago. It’s a small country store with a restaurant of sorts tucked back into one corner. One GOB (good ole boy) cooks and serves. If you do something silly like not ordering any meat, he’ll put some of his homemade sausage on your plate anyway. And you don’t get a ticket when you’re finished, you just amble over to the cash register and tell the lady what all it was that you ate and drank. Beth was dubious when I set a plate down in front of her that contained a huge halved biscuit smothered in gravy, two fried eggs and a piece of sausage.

But now? Now she is asking me when we are going back.

She is not, however, asking me when we are coming back to this particular cabin. This cabin affords privacy and a nice view but it has some notable drawbacks. One would be a death defying road that leads up to the place. It’s steep enough to be a bobsled run, has places with ruts big enough to swallow a SMART car whole, and has a blind hill that the stars of the FUEL TV series “Thrillbillies” would shirk in terror from. And if you survive the road up here, there is an equally deadly feature that awaits you inside of the cabin. Through reading the cabin guest book, we found that this wooden horror has a name. Behold, the Stairs of Death...

If you’ve ever been to the amusement park Cedar Point in Ohio, just think of the ride named “Demon Drop” as this is merely a non-mechanical version of it.

There is another feature of this cabin that while not dangerous, is nonetheless somewhat horrifying: the décor. One family wrote in the guest book that they tried for days to count all of the assorted bears inside the cabin, but it was simply too exhausting and mind numbing. After about 5 minutes on the inside, Beth declared, “No, I can’t take it” and proceeded to apprehend armloads of stuffed bears, bear statues and a moose or two and jam them into closets. We have one closet that now looks like a décor bear version of Gitmo. They will stay incarcerated until freed by the cleaning service after our departure.

But today it is sunny and nice and we are going horseback riding in the mountains. We may not make it back up the road to the cabin, but up until that point it will be a great day.

Note to readers: Daisy is doing much better. We will probably leave here a day or two early so she can be part of the early release program at the kennel.

Guest Blog: Pie Lady Goes South, Part 1 - by H

2011-11-10T09:07:00.000-08:00

The Pie Lady visits the Mountain South
(Part 1) – as told by H

It was a decidedly rough start to this adventure, as the days immediately before departing on this trip were rough ones for Beth. Her cartoon character terrier Daisy had surgery, was sick afterward, and had to be left in the care of a veterinarian the day before we left. Although the care, rest and limited activity afforded by lodging at the vet’s office was a good option for a post-surgery dog, leaving a dog for over a week (especially an ailing dog) is anathema to Beth’s constitution. It was traumatic with a capital T, as Beth is one of the dog-lovingest individuals anywhere on the planet. A sick Daisy meant that Beth got little sleep in the days before we headed south, so she was stressed and sleep deprived when it came time for our Sunday morning departure. We discussed not going at all, but the cabin was already paid for, and Beth rallied enough to get herself, me, Jack (terrier), Miska (Chow), Naf-Naf (guinea pig) into my car and onto the road.

Twelve hours in the car wasn’t exactly what Beth needed on that particular Sunday, but we both survived the trip, aided by listening to old radio episodes of Suspense on XM Radio. I’ve wanted to take Beth to the South almost from the day I met her. Why, you ask? Because Beth is about as un-southern as a woman can get. The often uttered, “Woman, get me a beer” which is a staple request/order from men throughout Dixie, would be one of the quickest ways I can imagine to get an instantaneous “Fuck off” response from Beth. If I had to label her geographic/cultural makeup, it would be California Yankee. And “CY” is about as far afield from “MS” (Mountain South) as you can get. This is why I knew it would be both fun and amusing to take Beth to the Georgia mountains...

The Happy Chair

Upon arriving, Beth still need a bit of attitude adjustment, so on the banks of the Toccoa River, she was boosted up into the Happy Chair.

I mean, how can you not be happy looking at this scenery?

Beth already has an appreciation for the scenery and outdoor recreational opportunities here. But southern culture? If only I’d taken a picture of the look on her face when the GOB (good ole boy) asked another GOB in the grocery store if he’d shot anything yet. More on this later...

Seeing Orange: As in Pumpkin Pie

2011-11-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

Since I know you've all been wondering (yeah, right) about how the Pumpkin Pie Palooza turned out, I am finally posting the pictures from the event. Yes, I realize it's been twelve days since my pie stand was open for that final day of the season. And yes, I realize I have posted nothing since then. I also realize time has marched on so far that the sunny Indian Summer days have given way to snow. Alas, since this blog is about pie and documenting my adventures based around "America's quintessential comfort food" and the Pumpkin Pie Palooza is about as pie-centric of a story as you can get, I figure better late than never.

So there we were, Saturday, October 29, on an unseasonably warm and sunny day... It was so warm, in fact, we did something Iowa weather doesn't normally permit: we moved the pie stand outside into the side yard.

I baked all the pies myself this time -- all 50 of them. My trusty pie assistant, Dakota McElderry, had returned to high school and given that he wasn't available for the weekday prep, I found myself alone in the kitchen for the first time in many months. I had forgotten how much I like -- even prefer -- working solo. With my iPhone earbuds securely in place, my apron tied around my waist, and my rolling pin at the ready, I found my rhythm, the trance-like one that had soothed my broken heart during that first year after Marcus died. I had forgotten how moving quietly, methodically, peacefully around my workspace, dusting my table with flour, rolling out dough, whisking eggs by the bowlful -- and not barking orders at Dakota or whoever else was helping with the pie stand -- allowed me the space and the time for my thoughts to wander, my ideas to flow, my nerves to calm. It was luxurious. And it reminded me of how much I still love making pie. A lot of pie.

And then, after two and a half days of baking, the pies all made and set out for display, it was show time.

Shirley Stacey, Eldon's ace mayor (who was THANKFULLY just re-elected
for another term!) was one of my first customers of the day.

Seeing it was a Halloween-based event, I took the time to create a makeshift costume. What better fitting attire for the Pitchfork Pie Stand than a...why yes, a costume that revolves around a pitchfork. I got the devil horns and matching tail for a dollar each at the Dollar Store. Can't beat that!

The ever-helpful Dakota McElderry

Seeing it was a Saturday -- a school-free day -- Dakota was able to work at the pie stand. He borrowed my bottle of fake blood to fashion a little beard for himself -- as his costume. He also crafted a "scary" prop out of a pie box and stuck it on the end of a pitchfork. Which I thought was very clever.

We did not, however, send home customer pies in blood-covered boxes.

My costume had some competition from a toddler. I couldn't help but think of one of those celebrity magazines with the red carpet photos of actresses caught wearing the same dress (oh, the horror!), you know that photo-driven column, "Who Wore it Better." In this case, I'm sure the little guy would have won. Especially with the devilish mustache, beard and eyebrows drawn on his face. Why didn't I think of that?!

Costumes and decorations aside, it was still the pies -- pumpkin, apple and apple crumble -- that were the showcase of the day.

I had a surprise visit from a woman who goes to the same college I attended -- The Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. A long way from (her) home, Sarah and her mom (who hails from Iowa) stopped by for a slice of pie and brought me a gift -- a vintage pie tin along with a needle-pointed logo of my alma mater, handcrafted by Sarah herself.

Last but not least, my BFF in Eldon, Patti, showed up late in the afternoon -- also in costume. She was dressed up as....me! She had the outfit wired, down to the pigtails and overalls (which she had had to borrow for the occasion). I laughed so hard I nearly cried. Should I have been flattered? I mean, she finished off the outfit with a witch's hat after all. Was she trying to tell me something?

Some of you asked if we had any leftover pie. Yes. A few pumpkin pies were left. And that made me very happy. Why? Because pumpkin pie freezes well, which means that for the past twelve days I've been able to have a rare stash on hand and indulge in my favorite food.

Really, I had such a good time with the Pumpkin Pie Palooza I'm wondering if I really can wait until Memorial Day to open up the pie stand again.

Pecan Pie Palooza anyone?

Pumpkin Pie Palooza Kicks Off With...Pumpkins

2011-10-26T18:33:00.000-07:00

This was all H's idea. As for me, after a verrrry long summer of pie slavery, I mean pie baking, I was quite relieved that the Pitchfork Pie Stand was closed for the season. But no. Halloween is H's favorite holiday. And apparently pumpkin pie is one of his favorite pies, because no sooner did I hang the "Sorry, We're Closed" sign on my door, H suggested, "Hey, let's have a Pumpkin Pie Palooza." Yeah, sure, okay, I replied in my love-struck state.

And so it begins, the preparation for one last pie-making hurrah of 2011. It's the same routine of the summer -- shopping for mass amounts of ingredients, rolling industrial-quantities of dough, boiling over pie filling in the oven clouding my kitchen with smoke -- except that it will be condensed into the next three days.

H has been very sweet and supportive about the whole thing though. We kicked off pumpkin pie season a few weeks ago when we went on a local "farm crawl." The first farm we stopped at was Pierce's Pumpkin Patch...
...where we stocked up on pumpkins that have been adorning the backyard of the American Gothic House ever since. One of the pumpkins even found its way onto the clothesline post -- as the head of the scarecrow. Which was also H's idea. (Seems that spending time in rural Iowa is bringing out his creative side.)

I had my own creative ideas for decorating the backyard (below). After all, October is not only about Halloween, it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month. But I digress...

H also bought me a pumpkin pie sign. It's adorable. And thoughtful. And reminds what a great guy H is. Not that I need reminding.

But really, H outdid himself today. While I was home getting caught up on work, he went to the grocery store --Aldi, of course -- and bought all the remaining ingredients I needed to get started. He sent me this photo from the parking lot:

And now...it's my turn to step in. Tonight I'll be making dough. Tomorrow I'll be rolling it. Friday I'll mix gallons of pumpkin custard and peel 60 pounds of apples, since we'll also offer apple pie. And on Saturday, I'll get up early to bake. And bake. And bake.

And finally, this Saturday from 12 to 4, we'll have pie for sale at the Pitchfork Pie Stand. We won't be open again until Memorial Day -- I swear -- so please come by for this Saturday's one-day event. The weather report is for 60 degrees and sun so we'll set up the pie stand outside in the yard. And even though I occasionally grumble about what hard work it is to run a pie stand, I'm really looking forward to a crispy fall day with the cinnamon scent of pie permeating the air. And not to just selling pie, but to eating some too!

Meanwhile, since so many of you come to my blog looking for recipes, let me fill you in on my "secret recipe" pumpkin pie. It's straight off the Libby's canned pumpkin label. Uh, yeah. There you have it. Hardly a secret. It's tried and true, it doesn't call for nutmeg (which I abhor for its overpowering taste), and -- always a prerequisite for me -- it's easy.

Happy Halloween, everyone. And Happy Pumpkin Pie season.

PUMPKIN PIE RECIPE (From the Libby’s label)

Ingredients:
3/4 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
2 large eggs
1 can (15 oz.) canned pumpkin
1 can (12 fl. oz.) evaporated Milk
1 unbaked 9-inch (4-cup volume) deep-dish pie shell
Whipped cream (optional)

Directions:
MIX sugar, cinnamon, salt, ginger and cloves in small bowl. Beat eggs in large bowl. Stir in pumpkin and sugar-spice mixture. Gradually stir in evaporated milk.
POUR into pie shell.

BAKE in preheated 425° F oven for 15 minutes. Reduce temperature to 350° F; bake for 40 to 50 minutes or until knife inserted near center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack for 2 hours. Serve immediately or refrigerate. Top with whipped cream before serving.

More Pie Scenes from New York City

2011-10-21T12:20:00.000-07:00

Pie scenes during my trip to New York City were plentiful and I would be remiss if I didn't report on them.

My stay kicked off by having dinner with my fabulous literary agent, Deidre Knight, who I hadn't yet met in person. Obviously our first meeting -- over a delicious meal in SoHo at The Dutch -- was a huge success. Why? For one, it ended with pie! Pictured is the Buttermilk Pie with a gingersnap crust and the Grapple Pie, a combo of apples and grapes. The Dutch's pie was not blue-ribbon-worthy (they were complicating something that should be respected for its simplicity) but still it was encouraging to see that NYC is embracing this quintessential comfort food.

I made a point to walk everywhere, rain or shine. On a blustery day, making my way back from Wall Street to the West Village, I veered through TriBeCa and passed Bubby's. I had heard of this "pie shop" but from the outside it looked like a busy semi-upscale restaurant. So I kept walking. One block later, I couldn't shake the notion that in spite of appearances this could be the place New Yorkers flock for pie, so I turned around, walked in the door, followed my pie radar, and found it! Yes, there was pie!

Bubby's also sells cookbooks with their pie recipes.

And, as a nice touch, they offer a park bench outside on which to sit and admire a cow while you're digesting your meatloaf, mac and cheese, and peanut butter chocolate pie. (Who could walk immediately after that kind of meal?!)

On another trek across town, from the West Village to Midtown, I stumbled upon New York Cakes and Bakery Supply in Chelsea. Pie baker's dream store or nightmare? I can't say for sure. All I know is that I was overwhelmed by...

...A whole wall of cookie cutters (good for cutting cute pie crust shapes)

...And a million rolling pins of all shapes and sizes.

I picked out a few items to buy, decided I should come back later when I had more time, returned my items to the shelves and racks, and then, naturally, never made it back. Oh well. There's always mail order.

And then, walking through La Guardia Airport as I went to take my flight back to Iowa, I saw this pie book prominently displayed in a souvenir shop. The book was a compilation of recipes from over 80 chefs, created by a New York photographer, and therefore qualified as a memento of the Big Apple. Hey, whatever. Works for me.

So even in a mega-size city full of noise, chaos, and competition, all around me there were signs of pie. And that made me feel right at home.

A Tribute to Frank Barnett -- and his Pecan Pie

2011-10-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

Another thing I managed to fit into my tight New York City schedule was lunch with an old roommate of mine, Carol Barnett-Stark. I lived in Manhattan when I was 25 years old. I had moved back to the U.S. from Nairobi, Kenya and started a coffee import business I called Livingstone Provisions. (Back when I had that enviable combo of big dreams and excess energy. How I miss those days.) I was trying to end an affair with a married man and Carol, an aspiring actress at the time, was trying to escape a religious cult. We rescued each other by sharing a one-bedroom walk-up on the Upper East Side, solving all our problems by sitting on the fire escape and talking late into the night over steaming cups of chamomile tea and ginger snaps.

Fast forward 24 years. Carol is still in New York with a darling 7-year-old daughter and I'm in rural Iowa with two unruly terriers. In spite of the number of years that have passed we have more in common than we knew. We had both married German men. She is (amicably) divorced from hers and, as we all know, my husband is...well, deceased.

When I went to meet her for lunch last Friday, taking the elevator up 20 floors to her office in a slick Times Square highrise, I learned we shared a bond over more than lost German husbands. We also had grief in common. Carol's dad, Frank, had died just two weeks earlier.

Carol and her dad Frank (just after chemo)

From our emails over the past year I knew her dad had been sick. He had been getting chemo and was doing much better than the doctors had predicted. He was living on his own, still meeting his friends for coffee every day, and then, out of nowhere, he had a stroke, his heart stopped, and he was gone.

Oh, I know what that feels like. To lose someone with no warning, no chance to say goodbye. Robbed of the opportunity to say “I’m sorry” or “I love you” or both. No time to say, “PLEASE DON’T GO!!!! I DON’T KNOW HOW I WILL SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU.” But they leave us –sometimes in an instant – and we are left with our tears, our grief, our loss, emptiness, confusion, our desperation.

And thus, last Friday, I happened to have stepped not only into Carol’s glass-walled office (with a million-dollar view of 42nd Street), I stepped into her grief. Fresh and raw. I recognized it all too well.

“What should I do?” Carol asked me coyly upon sharing her devastating news. “Make pie?”

I smiled at her to mask the sadness. “Well, it couldn’t hurt,” I said. “How about if you read my book? I mean, if you’re ready. You will see all the ways pie helped me. It’s not out until April, but I’ll send you a copy of my manuscript.”

She nodded and said, “My dad loved pie. He was known for his pecan pie. Everyone loved his pie so much they always expected him to bring it to their picnics and parties.”

“Are you serious? You never told me. I had no idea pie baking ran in your family.”

She continued, “When we had to print the program for the funeral we couldn’t come up with any scripture or other quotes that fit my dad. The funeral director said sometimes people include other things, like a favorite recipe. So we included my dad’s pecan pie recipe.”

My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe I was sitting in the middle of Times Square talking about life, death, and pie recipes printed in funeral programs. But there it was, another example of the far-reaching powers of pie. I like to think all those friends and family attending Frank Barnett’s farewell service smiled at seeing the recipe in such an unlikely place, and that they will all carry on his legacy by making his favorite pie themselves.

When I returned to Iowa I couldn’t stop thinking about my lunch with Carol. (I say “lunch” but we talked so much and so long I barely had time to slurp down a bowl of soup before my next appointment). Her dad remained very much on my mind. I wanted to tell the world about Frank, his pecan pie, and how his recipe played such a special role at his funeral. I asked Carol to send me the recipe and a picture of her with her dad. She sent both, along with this note:

With Thanksgiving approaching he would be getting requests and he would be so excited to whip up those pecan pies. He shelled the pecans himself. He was a salt of the earth kind of guy. Content to sit on the porch and watch the grass grow. Or go into town to have breakfast with his buddies. Perhaps ride around on his tractor lawn mower, taking care of the grass. He was a simple man with a great sense of humor. The most patient person you’d ever meet. I can’t tell you how many people came up to me at his funeral and said “Your dad was my best friend.” I thought WOW, my dad made everyone feel like they were his best friend…that’s awesome. I too will make my first pecan pie in his honor this Thanksgiving – and be thankful for the amazing dad I had.

Frank Barnett's famous pecan pie recipe.

Carol is truly an inspiration and sets an example of dealing with grief with grace. She reminds me that I, too, have a lot to be thankful for. And to honor that, I’ll scrap my trusted pecan pie recipe (the one on the Karo Syrup label) and make Frank’s recipe for Thanksgiving instead.

Twenty-four years after meeting Carol, we are still rescuing each other. Our wounds are much bigger than before, but we have stronger weapons to heal this time. We have a lifelong friendship to fall back on. And now we have pie.

My Book, Making Piece, Available for Pre-Order

2011-10-19T12:46:00.000-07:00

Here's an exciting update on my book -- it is now available for pre-order on Amazon! Every day closer to the publishing date of April 1 brings new progress. It may be five months until the book is out but the momentum -- and, dare I say, the buzz -- is starting to build.

I'm still waiting on final cover art for my book and will post it as soon as I have it, but meanwhile, here is the description that will appear on the book jacket:

Journeying through a grief that at times seems unbearable, Making Piece introduces a superb writer who used America’s quintessential comfort food—pie—to heal her heart, reconnect with people and find her way back after suffering a devastating loss. When journalist Beth Howard’s young husband dies suddenly, she packs up the RV he left behind and hits the American highways. At every stop along the way—be it shooting a pie documentary or handing out free slices on the streets of Los Angeles, Beth uses pie as a way to reach out and find purpose. Ultimately, Howard returns to her Iowa roots and creates the perfect synergy between two of America’s biggest icons—pie and the American Gothic House, the little white farmhouse immortalized in Grant Wood’s famous painting, where she now lives. During the summer, she runs the Pitchfork Pie Stand, which bears her living motto to “pie it forward” because she believes pie heals and makes the world a better place. Making Piece powerfully shows how one courageous woman uses the simple act of giving to others to triumph over tragedy. It tells of the role of fate, second chances and the strength found in community.

Want to read it? Be one of the first to order it on Amazon. Click here to pre-order.

Teaching New Yorkers to Make Pie

2011-10-18T14:41:00.000-07:00

I went to New York City last week to meet with my agent and book editor. Five months out from my book being published (pre-order hardcover here), we had a lot of planning to do for the publicity and book tour. Since moving to Eldon, Iowa -- into the American Gothic House -- over a year ago I've done surprisingly little travel, so it was a bit of a shock to the system to go...

from THIS... (view from my living room)

...to THIS! (Times Square)

Union Square Farmers Market on a rainy day

But meeting with my book publishing team wasn't the only thing on my NYC agenda. I stayed with my best friend from childhood, Nan, and she arranged for me to hold a pie-making class in her new West Village apartment. Ten women -- all professional, highly successful New Yorkers -- and I would be teaching them to how to make my signature, no-measure, "pie is not about perfection" apple pie! (Uh, yeah, good luck with that, right?)

I'll take 30 pounds, please. Yes, you heard correctly.

First stop was the Union Square Farmers' Market to buy apples. I admit to gasping at the prices. I mean, a buck fifty to two bucks a pound for apples when New York State is second only to Washington State in U.S. apple production? Shouldn't these be around 50 cents a pound? Alas, this was no time for lamenting the prices. I was in Manhattan after all... Hello???? -- The Big Apple! After I talked the seller down to $1.25 a pound, Nan and I loaded up 30 pounds of Granny Smiths into her "granny cart" to lug the produce one-mile home -- on foot. (And you wonder why New Yorkers don't get fat?!) After dropping off that load we made a second trip with the cart to get flour, sugar and butter at D'Agostino's.

Nan loads up the shopping cart.

I traveled with only a carry-on bag so I couldn't bring my pie supplies, baking essentials that include rolling pins, large mixing bowls, Chop 'n Scoops (pastry scrapers) and paring knives. Hell, I couldn't even bring aprons. Good thing these New Yorkers didn't mind getting flour on their designer jeans. Good thing that a big part of what I teach is this: Pie is about improvisation.

We improvised alright. We used whatever bowls we could dig out of Nan's moving boxes, took turns with the knives, and gathered our empty wine bottles to use as rolling pins. This meant we had to drink fast to get ten rolling pins. Ahem!

Nan's apartment is huge by New York standards with more square footage than the American Gothic House and a kitchen triple the size of mine. I'm not exaggerating. Case in point: ten of us were able to squeeze around the island. And yet, in spite of the concentration of Type-A personalities wedged together wielding wine bottles to roll their sticky pie dough, everyone worked together beautifully, seamlessly, happily.

And, as usual, listening to the lively banter, observing another crop of newborn pie bakers experience this pure and simple kind of happiness, in turn made me happy. I mean, here was a gathering of VPs, reality TV producers, book publishers, school teachers, children's book author, actresses, and playwrights -- people who might never meet each other -- brought together by pie. Let's just say, this palpable buzz made up for the shoe shopping and dining out time I gave up in order to teach this class.

Practicing what I preach: "Pie builds community. Pie is meant for sharing."

That's Eve Plumb -- yes, "Jan Brady," making her first pie!

Adding the final touches to the top crust.
Not surprisingly, these creative types got creative.

Deb Brody from Harlequin Nonfiction (my book publisher)
brushes her crust with an egg wash for a golden finish.

Admiring the finished pies. As usual, we had a 100 percent success rate!

H is for Holly Kowitt, children's author. I snapped a shot of it to send to "my H"
who was back at the American Gothic House on dog-sitting duty.

No pie party would be complete without the Victory Shot.
Smile for the camera and say "We love pie!"

If every trip to New York goes as well as this one, I will go back as soon as possible. But next time, in order to avoid the red-wine hangover, I'll bring a bigger suitcase so I can pack my own rolling pins.

Your FAQs Answered

2011-09-24T21:34:00.000-07:00

With the Pitchfork Pie Stand closed since Labor Day you would think I might have updated my blog by now. But no. I have been busy. Perfecting the art of downtime. This said downtime -- much-needed and well-earned after a demanding summer -- isn't something I am good at, but it doesn't matter. It won't last. Things will gear up for my book launch, starting with an October trip to New York to meet my agent and publisher, and a few new writing projects are set to begin soon. At this rate I will likely continue to neglect my blog. But since I keep getting asked questions about the status of certain things in my life, I thought a little summary might suffice in the meantime.

This is Naf-Naf, the latest addition to the American Gothic House pack.

Q: Why aren't you updating your blog more often?
A: See answer above. If that doesn't satisfy you, see answer below.

Q: Whatever happened with H?
A: H's visit in August was too short and it was too hard to say goodbye, so he flew home, packed up his clothes, his shaving kit, his dog and his guinea pig and drove back to Iowa with his menagerie. So, yeah, after just two dates (how does one define "dates" that lasted 5 days each?), H and his animals are basically living in the American Gothic House with me and Team Terrier. After 3 weeks...well, so far so good. H is an entrepreneur who is in between projects (thus his ability to pick up and spend time in rural Iowa). He is teaching me how to sleep more, stress less, laugh often, and spend time just walking the dogs, riding bikes, and reading. His calming energy is far more effective than time-release melatonin.

Q: Are you done with your book? When is it coming out?
A: "Making Piece: A Memoir of Love, Loss and Pie" is essentially done. The cover art is just about finalized, as is the copy for the book jacket. I have one more read-through to do before it goes to print and I should be receiving that last editable version any day now. I just finished compiling an extensive media contact list and publicity ideas for the publisher -- no small effort! The book is still scheduled to come out in hardback April 2012. Still about 6 months to go. The process feels like a damn pregnancy. Not that I would know, but the gestation period is about the same, as is the level of anticipation -- and fear of labor.

Q: Are you still making pies? Are you taking special orders? Teaching pie classes?
A: Yes, I'm still making pies. For H and me. And let me tell you, I enjoy making, say, 3 pies much more than making 53. And in that case, I enjoy eating them more too. I made a pie for my 10-year-old friend Chloe on Friday as a "get well" present. She had been in an ATV accident and needed some cheering up. (Lest we forget: Pie heals.) I made a pie for H's business partner and his wife who came by the AGH on Friday afternoon. I made a few pies-in-a-jar and stashed them in my freezer -- just because. So yes, I'm still making pies. Because I love making pies. And I love sharing pies with others. But because I don't love selling pie (I prefer giving it away whenever possible!) I am not currently taking special orders. I am still teaching pie classes (which I always love doing because I love seeing the happiness and sense of accomplishment others experience when making their own pie) and now have weekends available for classes in my kitchen.

Q: When will the Pitchfork Pie Stand be open again?
A: I plan to open the pie stand again in the late spring, around Memorial Day. I am already thinking about next year's business strategy and how to manage the volume (and keep my stress level down). That said, the pie stand will be open for a one-day special event -- the Pumpkin Pie Palooza -- on October 29, in conjunction with the American Gothic House Center's Halloween festivities. The pie stand will be open from 12 to 4 and we'll have pumpkin and apple pie. And maybe even a petting zoo (i.e.: H's chow and guinea pig.) Hope to see you then.

Readers Digest Names TWNMP as "Websites We Love"

2011-09-22T09:17:00.000-07:00

Readers Digest features my website/blog in its September iPad version. To subscribe to Readers Digest iPad app, click here. Thanks for the nice plug, RD! I especially like how they called my blog "charming" when they could have as easily called it "brutally honest," "irreverent," or -- ahem -- "opinionated."

Now if only I can get Santa to bring me an iPad for Christmas.

The Reality of Running a Pie Stand

2011-09-03T23:19:00.000-07:00

One of my guest pie bakers, Marcia Mermelstein
(left), was an whiz at rolling dough. I just
wish she could have stayed all summer!

Today was my last day of pie baking for the summer. By "pie baking" I mean mass production of pies for the Pitchfork Pie Stand. Running a humble little weekend pie stand in rural SE Iowa may seem like a peaceful, idyllic way to spend the hot season, but -- I hate to break it to you -- there is nothing relaxing or vacation-like about making 60 pies a weekend all summer long.

I've had numerous people ask me for advice on how to start a pie stand or pie shop or pie enterprise of some kind. "You've simplified your life and are making a living doing what you love," they all surmise. "How can I quit my job and start a pie stand?"

I promised to answer this in a blog post months ago. With all those (#&*%!) pies to make, however, I haven't had time to write. But I have been thinking about how to answer, what advice to give.

Yes, I've simplified my life. I've pared down my life to the basics, I rent a $250-a-month house miles from "civilization" (which I interpret as anyplace deemed big enough to have a Starbucks), and I don't have the typical workaday stress of commuting in traffic and navigating office politics. And while I love making pie, running a pie business is still, well, running a business. It comes with all the risks, expenses, hard work and headaches that any entrepreneurial endeavor entails.

Want to open a pie stand? All I can do is, based on my experience, give you a little heads up on what to expect.

My pie-making assistant, Dakota McElderry,
was a godsend this summer.

You will be....

on your hands and knees scrubbing your kitchen floor more often than you ever dreamed
tired and cranky
pulled in way too many directions all at once, simultaneously trying to fold bakery boxes, get pies out of the oven, wait on customers, peel apples, get more dough made, answer the phone, keep tourists from sneaking past your "Private Residence" sign, and more, only to find yourself...that's right, see point above
driving to the store for pie ingredients
driving to the store for pie ingredients
driving to the store for pie ingredients
running out of ingredients and having to drive back to the store again (oh, and the nearest store is 20 miles away)

Aldi got a lot of business from me this summer.
I regularly bought out the entire fruit section.

frustrated that you can't make enough pies to satisfy the demands of the customers
frustrated that there aren't enough customers to buy all those extra pies you made
fantasizing about how you can renovate your kitchen to get more (much-needed) counter space
swearing as jars, bottles, pints of berries and blocks of butter fall out of your refrigerator as you fight to make space for pie dough made in bulk
needing days off in between marathon baking sessions to let your hands and arms heal from the paring knife gashes and the oven burns
surprised at how fast the week goes and how, even though you scaled your pie stand hours back to just Saturday and Sunday, you really only get one day off a week, and that one day is used to catch up on emails and update your pie stand website
putting every cent you make on pies back into the business (for groceries and for gas for all those trips to the store, for bakery boxes, pie tins, paper plates, plastic forks, napkins, business cards, signage, etc.), while simultaneously dipping into your savings account for the rest of your living expenses (because, life, no matter where you live, is expensive)
wishing you had a job in a cubicle where you could sit in front of a computer and drink coffee (you will never actually be able to finish a cup of coffee while running a pie stand as your hands are constantly busy doing something else)

The very last apple pies of the summer ready to
go in the oven. Do I look tired and cranky, or what!

If it appears I'm trying to discourage anyone from opening a pie stand, you are wrong. Very wrong. My advice -- be it a pie stand, writing a novel, getting a dog, going sky diving or leaving a loveless marriage -- is that if you dream of something then just bloody well do it. Don't let it take a tragedy (like the sudden death of your 43-year-old husband) to shake you out of your stupor.

Because not only is life short, number 16 is this:

16. On closing day, you will already be thinking about next year and what improvements you're going to make: hire extra help, ask your landlord for a bigger refrigerator, put a table on the back porch for extra counter space. And even though on this last sweltering day of summer when you're feeling tired and burned out, you still need to scrub your kitchen floor, scrape the flour out of the cupboard handles, and do your umpteenth load of laundry (of aprons and hand towels and overalls), you will not only be thinking about next year's pie stand, you will be looking forward to it.

**Thank you to all our patrons for making the Pitchfork Pie Stand at the American Gothic House a success. Success is not measured in money, mind you, but in the reward of meeting some wonderful, interesting, NICE people from all over the U.S. and from as far away as China, Singapore, Australia, Europe and beyond. You made all that scrubbing, shopping and sweating worth it!

Marcus Two Years Gone: After the Darkness, Light

2011-08-17T23:50:00.000-07:00

Marcus died two years ago Friday (on August 19). I remember the day as if it were yesterday. I remember the morning walk with my two little terriers in the searing heat of that Terlingua, Texas desert sun. I remember having some strange heart palpitations and returning to my little miner's cabin to lie down. I remember The Phone Call, first ignoring the ringing phone, then listening to the voice mail and learning it wasn't Marcus who had called; it was the medical examiner. I remember the events of the day unfolding, the subsequent phone calls to family, friends, airlines, funeral homes. But what I remember most is the tears. Not just a few crocodile tears streaming down my cheeks, but a gushing waterfall of sobbing, screaming, wailing. I cried so hard I was choking. I emitted frightening guttural sounds I didn't know I was capable of making. I remember lying on the floor in front of the fan, awake that entire first night, feeling a pain so deep and torturous I wanted to rip the skin off my body to get it out.

Months later, after moving to Portland, I remember sitting in the first and only grief support group session I attended listening to other widows talk of their losses, and how after two years they were still grieving. Two years?! I did not want that to be me! At that point I didn't think I would even be able to stay alive two more years. Really.

Obviously, I survived. I got private grief counseling, I took some time to hibernate, and then I got busy -- making pie. The grief has never gone away, but with time -- all 24 months of it – the acuteness of it has eased. Two years. What a dark, dark period of my life.

But it is hard to write about darkness when there is a bright, blinding light shining in your eyes -- light that's like having been sealed in a blackened room for two years and suddenly the window shade flies open letting intense rays of sun rush in. The sensation of light I'm talking about is this: On the two-year anniversary of Marcus' death I am not curled up in the fetal position reliving the events of that horrendous life-changing day. Instead, I am driving to the airport to pick up a new friend. A man. A new love.

When he – let’s call him H – when H told me he was arriving on the 19th I didn’t mention the significance of the date to him. I didn’t reveal how symbolic it was to be making room for someone new on a day that represents the greatest loss I have ever known. But it begs the question: Is this timing just a coincidence? No, I don’t think so. I think it's Marcus's doing.

One of the things that has helped me most in dealing with my grief is talking to Marcus. I talk to him daily, mostly at night when I am walking my dogs under the star-filled heavenly Iowa sky. He doesn’t talk back, but that doesn’t stop me. I tell him I miss him. I ask him how he is. I tell him how I am. And, sometimes, I ask him for his help. Go ahead, roll your eyes and think that's all "woo-woo," but I swear he is tending to my needs. I asked for his help in January when I started writing my book. Seeing as I have never written so fast and so prolifically in my entire life I am convinced he was here pushing my fingers on the keyboard. Then, a few weeks ago, after my short-lived and exhausting attempt at dating dampened my spirits, I asked him for help again. “I am still in my forties. I am still alive. I still want – still need – physical contact. Can’t you just send me someone who will hold me in his arms?”

Enter H. A gift sent from the “Other Side.” How else to explain where this promise of new love came from? H is the definition of a gentleman. He is elegant and handsome, kind and generous, funny, caring and supremely smart. And he is a damn good hugger. When he wraps his manly arms around me I feel safe again, anchored, better. Much, much better.

Maybe, going forward, August 19will represent an auspicious day instead of an ominous one. All I know is that I’m feeling some of those strange (but good) heart palpitations as H’s flight arrival time approaches. And that for the first time in two years my tears have stopped long enough to see more than just a passing glimmer of light. I'm seeing so much light, in fact, I may have to seek a little darkness to balance out the new-found brightness. At a point when I might have been needing to invest in more Kleenex, instead I'm thinking a new pair of sunglasses will do.

(Thank you, Marcus. You may be gone, but you are most definitely not forgotten -- and still very much loved!)

One Year in Iowa: A Brief Look Back

2011-08-12T09:52:00.000-07:00

I am rushing out the door to the Iowa State Fair this morning. Seems I am always rushing these days between the demands of the Pitchfork Pie Stand, my ongoing book edits (one more round to go), entertaining a steady stream of house guests, and caring for my two dogs. How I've managed to create such a hectic life in such a small, quiet town, I'm still trying to figure out. The fact is, I've been so busy it only just occurred to me today that I have now been in Iowa exactly one full year. And what a strange, long -- but good -- year it's been.

Last August I packed up my MINI Cooper and left all my belongings in storage in Portland, where I had been living, and drove to L.A., where I was planning to return to and live after my cross-country jaunt to Iowa to judge pies at the state fair. My mom had already been apartment hunting for me in her beachfront neighborhood. But as we all know, life often (never?) goes according to our plans.

From the moment I crossed the Iowa state line I felt little nubs sprout from under my feet. I didn't know it at the time, but they were roots. I was born and raised in Iowa, left at 17 (even graduating early from high school to "get the hell out of here"), and have lived all over the U.S., let alone the world, ever since. (My dad still complains about how many pages I've taken up in his address book.) I hadn't visited Iowa in five years, and that was only for a two-day weekend for my 25th high school reunion. But last August, with the sun shining, the puffy clouds all white and picturesque dotting the blue sky, and the fragrant scent of pig manure permeating the air, I was filled with a sense of groundedness and calm I hadn't felt since before Marcus died (which, in case you're not keeping track the way I do, will be two years ago one week from today).

I spent 12 days at the state fair, lured in by all its vibrancy and wonder. I ogled over giant-size everything from sci-fi-esque farm implements to 1,500-pound pumpkins to the "Big Boar" weighing in at 1,200 pounds. I ate my way around the fair grounds sampling foods from peppermint ice cream bars to juicy watermelon to plump and smoky corn dogs to pork chops on a stick (my personal favorite). And, of course, there was the pie.

I had come back to Iowa to be a pie judge at the fair, "As research," I insisted, "for my pie TV show." (It can be a little difficult for Californians to understand why anyone would willingly travel to the Midwest.) For 12 days I sampled pie of every flavor and texture. Some of it was good, some of it was inedible, and some of it was off-the-charts memorable (like Lana Ross' French Silk Pie). Either way, it was a whole lot of pie.

After the fair, I took a small road trip to the southeast corner of the state, to the city of Ottumwa, to visit my birthplace. I ate lunch at the Canteen in the Alley, drove all over the town (pop. 25,000) snapping photos of my childhood home, my grade school (Horace Mann), my grandparents' house, my dad's old dental office, and more. It was a nostalgia-filled day, one that while I was still mired in grief over Marcus, helped to soothe my soul.

From Ottumwa, I was en route to Fairfield when I happened upon the road sign for the American Gothic House. It was a fork in the road, one that I obviously took, one that unknowingly would alter the course of my life.

When I left the West Coast for Iowa, I had no idea I would not be returning to L.A., that I would simply call up a moving company and have them deliver my furniture without me having to go back. And when I rented the cute little 130-year-old famous farmhouse, I had no idea what the rest of the year would bring -- a book deal, a completed manuscript, a successful little pie stand, a slew of national press, new friends, an array of cultural experiences, a heart that has healed (mostly), and, get this, the promise of new love! (More on that later...let's just say Match.com didn't disappoint after all.)

Today, one year later, I am, incredulously, still here in Iowa. My roots are still growing and burrowing their little nubs deeper and deeper into the fertile soil. My life is richer and fuller now -- and, surprisingly, busier now -- than I ever could have dreamed. What a difference a year makes.

And with that, I better fire up the engine of my MINI. I have a 90-minute drive to the fair grounds and some peach pie to judge.

Life in SE Iowa: One Big Cultural Experience

2011-08-04T22:50:00.000-07:00

My friends Sam and Lisa and their two kids (ages 8 and 12) visited from San Francisco last week. I gave them what has become the standard Southeast Iowa tour for all my house guests (and, oh, I have had many this summer). As we drove from place to place, through the wide open fields of corn and soybeans, past the pig barns and grazing cows, past the weather-worn barns and farmhouses with peeling paint, it was pointed out to me by the 12-year-old – in the blunt and direct way that only a 12-year-old can get away with – that I was prefacing everything we did and saw with the phrase, “It’s a cultural experience.”

I didn’t realize I had been saying this so often and I had to ask myself why. Am I rationalizing my city-girl background against my new life of simplicity in rural Iowa? Am I trying to justify my reasons for remaining here in a town of 927 when, in fact, yes, I do miss Starbucks and sushi, movie theaters and bookstores, overpriced trendy cafes and wine bars? Or am I, even after one year here now, still über-fascinated with the lifestyle, one so vastly different from my expensive and hectic and hyper urban existence?

All I know is that we packed in a lot of activity – and a lot of local culture – into a three-day stay.

Make sure you order a shake
to go with that burger

Cultural Experience #1: The Canteen Lunch in the Alley in Ottumwa opened in 1936 and has remained unchanged since. The diner serves one thing and one thing only: loose meat burgers called "Canteens." The diner is in a tiny, cinderblock building, dwarfed beneath a city parking garage. The diner in the TV show “Roseanne” was modeled after The Canteen. When we ate there, Sam, Lisa and family were not the only Californians in the 20-seat place, proof to them that The Canteen is clearly high on the list of must-visit places in the area.

I've gone to the auction three times now and I can't wait to go back

Cultural Experience #2: The Southern Iowa Produce Auction, where Amish sell their homegrown fruits and vegetables, is not a tourist attraction. But it should be. Twice a week, just outside of Drakesville, the local Amish pull their horse-drawn carts right up to the auction stand where customers sit in bleachers and bid on tomatoes, corn, peaches, and whatever else happens to be ripe. There’s a real auctioneer, the kind you’d find at a cattle auction, who talks so fast it’s impossible to understand what he’s saying. This is a chance to observe the Amish culture up close and personal – women wearing plain blue smock dresses and black bonnets, the kids running around shoeless while guzzling Mountain Dew, and the men, busy unloading their vegetables, sporting long beards, straw hats, trousers held up by suspenders, and white dress shirts. Interestingly, it was Sam and Lisa’s 8-year-old, Meleah, who was the object of observation -- a cultural experience in reverse! The Amish kids couldn’t take their eyes off her and her wild dark curly hair with the bright-colored thread braided through it. She was wearing a blue mini skirt and a T-shirt that read “Peace, Love, Ice Cream.” And flip flops with glitter. Maybe it was her footwear that made her so interesting to the Amish kids. They don’t wear shoes – ever – unless there is an absolute necessity, like a foot of snow on the ground.

An Amish woman (actually, my new friend Pauline -- she's lovely!) walks
two miles to sell her angel food cakes at the twice-weekly auctions

Cultural Experience #3: The Milton Creamery in Milton (well, outside of Milton on Highway 2, sitting by its lonesome) is run by Mennonites. Here, we tasted cheese curds and purchased their World Cheese Championship winner: Prairie Breeze, which we found out is also sold in San Francisco at a store called Rainbow Grocery. Lisa, a journalist and TV producer, pumped the woman behind the counter with questions like why the Amish kids don’t wear shoes (Answer: to save money) and why the Mennonite women wear white bonnets when the Amish wear black (Answer: some Amish also wear white.) It would have been nice to stay longer and learn more, but we had to get home to the pie stand.

Cultural Experience #4: The Dutchman’s General Store in Cantril, Iowa always provides several hours’ worth of entertainment to my out-of-town guests. There is plenty to stimulate the mind and senses in this store. The book section, filled with Amish romance novels, is to an outsider, well, novel. There are a dozen aisles of fabrics, ribbon, and buttons (no zippers allowed in Amish clothing --handmade clothing, of course). The clothing section boasts straw hats, bonnets, bib overalls, farm boots, and a long aisle of sensible shoes available in black only. You will find Amish dolls in the toy section. (Hardly Barbie and Ken, these decidedly anti-glamour dolls are clad in Amish-issue smocks and suspenders.) If you need spices there are a zillion to choose from packed in miniature plastic containers, all labeled and nicely organized in alphabetical order. You can scoop your own garden seeds from a self-serve shelf unit. And lest you think Mennonites or Amish or Iowans in general are health nuts, let’s not forget the entire aisle of candy bins – licorice, taffy, M&Ms, jelly beans, you name it they’ve got it – in bulk. It’s not just the vast and unusual (well, unusual to people not from here) selection of items that fascinates the Dutchman’s shopper; it’s the prices. “We pay $7 for farm-fresh eggs at home,” Lisa gasped when she saw our humble little Iowa farm eggs go for a dollar a dozen. (“SEVEN bucks?!,” I gasped back.) Ditto for the locally produced organic milk – in SE Iowa it costs a fraction of what one pays in a big city. Among the many items brimming in their shopping cart, Sam and Lisa bought an apple peeler/corer/slicer as a useful souvenir for future pie making. And I bought three cases of peaches. A successful shopping trip.

Cultural Experience #5: The Burlington Bees minor league baseball game was not on my standard tour. It wasn’t on my list at all. My guests, however, made the inevitable inquiry about the Field of Dreams. How far is it? Can we go there? And when they learned it’s a five-hour drive from Eldon, they opted for a real baseball game just over an hour away. (Seeing as I like baseball about as much as I like six-foot snakes in my bathroom, they came up with this plan all on their own.) Minor league teams all have an affiliation with a major league team and in a touching coincidence, the Bees happen to be the kid brother team to the Oakland A’s, so my San Francisco friends had a connection to home. No matter that it was 100 degrees in the shade and sitting squished together in the box seats only made the sweltering heat worse, we got free hot dogs and, why yes, a cultural experience! (By the way, the Bees lost.)

This is why my dogs don't like house guests.

Cultural Experience #6: Of course, their stay at The American Gothic House was a cultural experience in and of itself. At first the kids pulled the kitchen curtain shut when they saw tourists swarming around outside. “You’ll get used to it,” I said. “You won’t even notice after a while.” Not only did they get used to it, once we opened the Pitchfork Pie Stand the kids ran to the windows whenever they saw people getting their pictures taken out front. They even went outside, regardless of stepping into the camera shot, to lure in potential pie customers. The kids also took their turn playing tourist. They dressed up for photos and even put the costumes on my dogs. Which was a first. And, as far as my dogs are concerned, hopefully the last.

By the end of their stay, my friends were considering this enlightened view of “Life as Cultural Experience” and started asking, “What would we show our visitors in Northern California that we would describe as a cultural experience?”

Lisa experiencing backyard
"culture" at the AG House

“The hippies in Berkeley?” I suggested. “Maybe the fish market at Fisherman’s Wharf. Chinatown. The Financial District.” My guess is that they’re still mulling over their own answers to this.

Meanwhile, I haven’t answered my own question about whether or not I’m trying to convince myself that living in rural Iowa is the right thing for me. That’s because there is no answer. I am here because I am still learning, stretching, growing, healing, and experiencing life in new and rich ways. I am here because I want to be. I am here because the real cultural experience is the generosity and kindness found beneath the layers of peeling paint, the pig farms, the horse buggies and bonnets. What makes a culture is the people and you can’t really know the people unless you stay a while. Which is why I just signed a new one-year lease.

* * * * *

ADDENDUM: After Sam, Lisa and kids left, I had a new cultural experience of my own, one I am sure my SF friends would not have found charming or fascinating, but rather appalling like I did. In a desperate attempt to escape the hundred-degree heat, I accepted an invitation to go boating on the Des Moines River with some friends. Except that their definition of “boating” was “parking.” We motored upriver and tied up on a sand bar next to five other boats. The other boaters were all standing in the river, in chest-high water, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. When the last sips and puffs were taken, the empty cans and butts were simply tossed into the river. Only to start the cycle all over again. More beer. More cigarettes. More litter. All day long. Every single summer weekend. I was fuming inside, but I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to come across as the uppity, righteous Pie Lady. It was bad enough that I was already “Pie Lady in a bikini,” I didn’t need “bitch” added to my boat-guest status. And I didn’t want to embarrass my friends. So I kept my mouth shut. For now. But when I figure out how to tackle this one, I’ll be back to influence this part of culture we would all be better off without.

Whatever Happened to The Beast?

2011-08-01T21:01:00.000-07:00

The Beast: Happy in its new role as American Gothic House privacy screen/fence.

"What happened to The Beast?" some of you have been asking. The Beast is the nickname I gave the RV that Marcus left behind, the 24-foot-long camper that I was originally terrified to drive but proved not only a cinch to drive but a dream vehicle for long road trips. (When you get tired you don’t have to hobble into the next Motel Six, you just pull over and take a nap or make an espresso.) It also ended up being the genesis for the pie TV show concept. (Watch the 2-minute promo video here.)

When I drove to Iowa last August I made the difficult decision of driving my MINI to Iowa, leaving The Beast with my brother Mike in Southern California. My parting words were, "I'll be back in a month." Then I stumbled upon the American Gothic House and moved in. My plans to return to LA were stymied and thus my refrain became, "I'll be there at Christmas." But I ended up spending the entire winter in Iowa, writing my book and not really missing the California rat race. So, eventually, I promised, "I'll come and get it this spring, maybe drive it back to Iowa at Easter." But then spring came and went and the RV was still in California.

I didn’t feel much pressure as I sensed Mike wasn't in a huge hurry to part with it. He was getting good use out of the RV for surf trips, even just day trips to Huntington Beach where he could use the big rig for both a wetsuit changing room and a post-surf-session coffee house with an ocean view.

Even I was able to get in on the RV surf safari action
when I snuck in a quick trip to LA in February.

He was also using it for his work, painting murals at schools around Los Angeles – “campus beautification projects” – with his non-profit called Operation Clean Slate. Turns out The Beast made a good scaffolding as well as overnight crash pad (he has to trace mural outlines with a projector and that can only be done in the dark).

It was free storage for me and a free work/play vehicle for him, a true win-win. Until the day that a disgruntled neighbor (seems we all have one!) reported that The Beast had been parked a little too long on his residential street. It was on my birthday in June he sent me an email that read, “The time has come.” Attached to the email was a photo of a big red piece of paper on the windshield with bold black letters stating: “Notice of Parking Violation.” It was a warning, not a ticket, there was no fine, but even so, reclaiming what was ultimately my responsibility became urgent.

Mike also used the RV for beachfront brunches with my parents.

Ironically, it was on that same day – my birthday, June 14 – that the mayor of Eldon paid me a visit to show me the Polaroid photos my own disgruntled neighbors had taken of my dogs in their yard. Evidence. Proof of trespassing. Something needed to be done. It might have meant actually having to put my two little terriers on leashes. THE HORROR! Or perhaps erect a fence on that side of the lawn to keep my dogs from sprinting after the bunnies and squirrels that seemed to favor that particular neighbors’ yard. Or, could it be? Yes! Get the RV to Iowa, park it on that side of the property and use it as both a barrier to the neighbors’ lawn AND as a privacy screen to keep their prying eyes off my back door comings and goings. (These neighbors have more of an issue with me than just my dogs on their grass and, as such, my life has become their number one source of entertainment -- and fodder for constant complaints to City Hall.)

With a little juggling of schedules and a lot of lucky timing, I was able to get the RV from LA to Phoenix, where friends from Eldon were vacationing, and they drove The Beast cross-country from Phoenix to Southeast Iowa. And now, I am happily reunited with my trusty travel rig. I cannot wait for a lull in this searing summer heat and this Pitchfork Pie Stand busyness to take it out on a road trip.

Until then, I am equally thrilled at how The Beast is serving this inadvertent purpose. My neighbors haven’t complained about my dogs since the RV arrived. Rather, I’m waiting for their next complaint: that I’m blocking their view. I have a response already prepared in anticipation: “If you need something to watch, there’s this thing called TV.”

My Garden at Two Months

2011-07-20T21:31:00.000-07:00

Two months is all it took for my garden to go from seed to full bloom. What I expected to be a gradual process, one that would require a test of patience (a quality I've been known to lack), turned out to be more instantaneous. Almost freakishly so. I was especially blown away by the lightning-speed growth when my neighbor Don came over to check on my zucchini last week.

"You just checked them two days ago and they weren't even close to being ready to pick," I said, wondering why he had come back so soon.

Dressed in his overalls and straw hat, he bent over and pulled the large leaves aside. I squatted down next to him.

"Well, they're ready now," he said. I craned my neck to see what he was looking at and saw the vegetables were at least ten times the size they had been only 48 hours earlier.

"That is insane!" I told him.

He laughed and showed me how to grab a hold of the zucchini at its point of attachment and twist to pull it off -- much the same way I pick ticks off my dogs, a daily chore. We picked four zucchini that must have weighed a pound each. I sent two home with him. I also picked green beans for him, my fourth "crop" so far.

"These beans are really good cooked with bacon," he told me.

"No, Don," I replied, shaking my head at him. "No bacon and no butter. Just steam them. You can be my gardening coach and I'm going to be your health coach."

After he left I rooted around the rest of the garden, looking to see what other monstrous growth might be lurking under the large leaves.

Cucumbers were ready to pick...

But the cantaloupe was not. Still, I was amazed to see the beginnings of what promises to be delicious fruit.

I laughed out loud when I discovered the baby watermelon. I've never grown watermelon before -- that would be impossible since I've never had a garden before -- and I've never even seen a watermelon patch. But now I have my own and I can marvel at how this miniature little ball will soon become a giant one, filled with juicy red flesh. I cannot wait for the day I sink my teeth into that first home-grown slice!

And let's not forget this all-important investment in my pie future: the pumpkin patch! Look at that little tiny thing that will one day be orange and end up as cinnamon-spiced custard in a crust.

One lesson I've learned about gardening is that squash -- the cantaloupe, watermelon, zucchini, cucumbers, and pumpkin -- needs a lot of space. A lot more space than I gave any of it.

Alas, no need to fret over the tangle of vines that were crowding and strangling each other in the garden, spilling out onto my lawn, and growing their way over toward the clothesline. I may be a novice gardener but I am a decent problem solver. I got some cattle fencing -- a heavy duty metal grate -- secured it to some stakes I pounded in the ground and made the pumpkin vines grow vertically. These are sugar pumpkins, which won't grow nearly as big as jack-o-lanterns, so they should be able to hang instead of being supported by the ground. This worked so well, I employed the same technique for the cucumbers and cantaloupe, whose vines were also growing askew. I'm happy to report all veggies are doing well climbing high up their new fences.

But what about me? all this explosive garden growth makes me ask. How much have I grown in the past two months? While all these innocuous looking seeds have transformed into edible bounty, how has my own life transformed? How does one measure one's own growth when it is not always outwardly visible in the way a sunflower reaches for the sunlight, rising taller and taller, until its bright yellow petals unfold and reveal themselves?

After giving this some thought and mulling over all the activities of the past ten weeks -- running the pie stand, managing the steady stream of house guests, doing two rounds of edits on my book, getting a new kitchen sink and counter installed, battling bronchitis, having a birthday, teaching pie classes, and, oh, making that noble but ill-fated attempt at dating again -- when has there been time for personal growth?! Most days my life feels like the tangled chaos of my squash vines. If only I had one of those cattle fences to organize and contain my unruly stems, something to hang onto that allows me to grow upward. Or maybe I am more like the carrots and the beets -- scruffy green leaves on the outside, but inside my roots are simply burrowing deeper in the ground, and I am growing, slowly but steadily, in my own unseeable way. It's a longer and more difficult process to expand and grow in this underground, dirt-moving way. It's the kind of growth that requires patience. Oh, right.

Until that self-realization is unearthed, I will continue to enjoy the harvest and reap the benefits of my spinach, lettuce, tomatoes, basil and the many other healthy greens that are sustaining me this summer. I will continue to check the garden each morning with excitement and anticipation -- and holding my breath that I don't wake up to zucchini the size of my Mini Cooper. You laugh. But at this current growth rate, anything is possible.

Experiment in Dating: Part Two

2011-07-11T21:00:00.000-07:00

It's a weird and heart-wrenching business, this online dating thing. And I'm not comfortable going into much more detail about it, but since I've whetted your appetites and you all seem so damn curious now, I'll feed your ravenous, voyeuristic curiosity a little more. But only a little. And then I will have to stop. Because as one male friend said, "I would be afraid to date you if I thought my every move was going to be documented on your blog." Point taken. And certainly, if/when dating more than one person at a time, any public revelations could become quite problematic.

My love life may not be in full bloom but my garden is -- and less than 2 months
since planting the seeds. If only dating were that quick and easy!

Anyhoo....

It's been one week now since I signed up for Match.com and here are the stats to date:

791 people have viewed my profile, 80 people have emailed me, 58 have sent "winks" and 13 have designated me as a "favorite."

I have nothing to compare these numbers to, but I suppose that's not a bad return for a 49-year-old grieving widow living in rural Iowa. I should be flattered by the response, but I attribute it mostly to being a "new listing" on the site, like in real estate when people are only interested in seeing only the most recently listed homes. Instead of allowing my ego to get a nice boost, I simply feel bad. Why? Because what this seemingly large response tells me is that there are a lot of lonely people out there. I don't want people to be lonely. I want everyone to be happy. Regardless of age, height, weight, income or religious beliefs, everyone deserves to be happy. Even republicans. I want to bake all these people pie. And make them feel better.

Instead, I just ignore them. And that makes me--and probably them--feel worse.

I just can't email everyone back. While many of the emails seem sincere--people who actually read my profile, weren't put off by my widow status and liberal leanings, and still wanted to "chat"--I don't have time to take on the task of mass correspondence. I already have two Facebook pages, a LinkedIn page, and two Twitter accounts, on top of the daily business email churn. I have a blog to maintain and I have my latest round of book edits due. Managing a Match.com account--which is like having a whole separate Outlook email interface--on top of my regular workload is...well, it's just too much work. In short, Match.com has proven to be both time-consuming and guilt-producing. Not a good combo.

So why haven't I taken my profile down yet like I threatened to do after Day One? Because out of all those emails and winks and favorites and views, I have actually met a few nice people. And even though the chances are slim that they will become lovers, they will most certainly become friends. And dinner companions. Which is all I really wanted in the first place.

And that's all I'm going to say. If you want juicy dating details, I suggest reading one of my friend Leigh Michaels' romance novels.

Experiment in Dating: Day One

2011-07-05T22:55:00.000-07:00

After crying all day Saturday over Marcus and what would have been – SHOULD have been – his 45th birthday this past weekend, I decided it’s time. It’s time to stop wallowing in the past and bravely, boldly embrace the future. What I’m trying to say is two years after Marcus’ passing, it’s time to start dating again. Gulp.

Every day I peer out my windows and watch all those couples posing for photos in front of the American Gothic House. Even though I am proud of myself for my independence and ability to, um, “wear the overalls” so to speak, I wouldn’t mind having someone to stand by my side.

I miss Marcus. But Marcus isn’t coming back. So forward I go.

First, I timidly posted a little blurb on Facebook telling my friends – all 300 of them – that even though I was scared about it, I was open to dating again. I strategically posted this little tidbit at a time when not many people would see it -- on the Fourth of July when everyone but me was out watching fireworks. I was surprised that (a) I had such a huge outpouring of support for this idea -- “Yes! You are going to join the living again. You’re going to do great!” they commented, with about a hundred “Likes” -- and (b) I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t out watching fireworks.

Spurred on by this support I took the next step. It’s the thing I preach to anyone who is looking to meet someone and complaining about not being able to. “Have you tried EVERYTHING?” I ask. “Have you signed up for Match.com?” Who am I to be a hypocrite? I got out my debit card and coughed up the sixty bucks for the three-month subscription. All the while feeling a growing wave of nausea in my stomach. This is what my life has come to?

My profile picture. Would you go out with
a girl wearing a chicken apron?

It’s been 24 hours now and here are the stats so far: 263 people have viewed my profile, 5 have labeled me as a “favorite,” I’ve had 18 “winks,” (I winked one, because he does triathlons, he’s been to Africa, and I liked his shoes – but I could see he viewed my profile and never responded. Hmph!). I’ve received 26 emails, and I’ve replied to exactly one person who I may or may not meet for coffee on Thursday. I haven’t even had one date and I’m fucking exhausted! One guy (a musician who seemed very nice but lives a geographically undesirable two hours away) told me he was taking his profile down after having been subscribed to Match for only two days. I completely understand that now. I’m ready to take mine down after just one.

My friend Kelly weighed in when I told her I was going to shake things up in my social life. As a former Match.com user, she cautioned me, “It was too much work to weed through the profiles and emails, decide to meet, and then realize the man was not someone I connected with (or vice versa). I found myself spending way too much time and energy on the sifting process because you don't want to seem judgmental or particular, etc., but hell, that's exactly what you are doing because you talking about entering into a personal, romantic and possibly intimate relationship with this person.”

She gave up after she met, married, and divorced her second husband – whom she met on Match. But when things got dull she went back on the site, “just to check out the competition.” In other words, she did a reverse search, looked at profiles of women in her age category, and actually emailed and then went out for drinks with someone who is now her best friend. (And, no, they are not lesbian lovers.) They discovered they had dated some of the same men (such is the size of the dating pool in Iowa) and had some good laughs about that over cosmopolitans.

But I’ve also heard – and witnessed -- the success stories. My friend Bennett signed up for Match and met the man of her dreams in Portland –a successful entrepreneur, he speaks five languages, runs marathons, knows good wine, and has impeccable manners (even my mother approves of him) -- and now they live in the house of MY dreams in the Columbia River Gorge. There are countless other stories of people who have found a mate.

Right now, however, I’m willing to start small. Take baby steps. I’m not looking for a mate. I just want to pretend I have some semblance of normalcy to my life. I just want to go out for dinner. At a restaurant. Would that really be asking too much?

If Match doesn’t pan out -- and believe me, my expectations are about as high as Homer Simpson’s IQ -- I suppose I can always sit on the park bench in front of my house and just see who shows up. Once in a while I see a man traveling solo. If one happens by and looks promising, I can loan him my pitchfork, maybe offer him a piece of pie. If he wants someone to pose with, I can offer to play the part. Which makes me wonder, maybe I should stop wearing my overalls and start wearing a dress.

Regardless, I’ve already taken the first step. I’ve decided. Bravely, boldly or terror and angst-filled, either way, I am facing the future. And making room for someone new.

Guest Blogger: Jack Iken

2011-07-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

Hi. My name is Jack Iken. I'm seven years old. I'm half Jack Russell terrier, half Yorkshire terrier. I like playing stick, I like belly rubs, and I really like grilled meat, especially filet mignon.

I'm blogging for my mom today because she doesn't feel good. She was going to take the weekend off and go on a mini-vacation. She said something about wanting to take a break from the "fishbowl," but I’m not sure what that means because we don't have any fish. She even closed the pie stand for the whole weekend, which was a big deal because people like to come here and buy her pies. (I like it when people come to buy pie because sometimes they’ll throw the stick for me and rub my belly.) But on Saturday, my mom woke up with a sore throat and a cough so we had to stay home. I was disappointed because when we go on trips she always takes us someplace fun. Lately we've been finding lakes where we can hike and swim. (I like swimming, especially if it involves going after a stick.) However, I didn't mind staying home because she put a mattress on the office floor where it's cooler, turned on the air conditioning, and we got to nap all day. And Daisy (my sister) and I really like napping. But we like napping even more when our mom is in bed with us.

Mostly she slept, but she cried a lot too and said to me a few times, “I miss your dad.” She was sad because his birthday was yesterday, July 2nd. He would have been 45 in people years. That’s 315 in dog years. I wonder how much it is in spirit years. That’s what my mom says he is now: a spirit. I think that means like a ghost, but a good ghost. (I’m not scared of ghosts, but I am scared of fireworks. So I’m glad we stayed home where it’s safe from all those explosions outside.)

I don’t tell my mom, because I don’t want to make her feel even sadder, but I miss my dad too. He was a really good dad and a really good stick thrower. One of the things I miss the most is when he came home from work every night and took off his shoes, he let me pull off his socks, like tug o’ war, and when I would get one off I would run all over the house with it and he would chase me. Then I would get tired of running and pull off the other one and he would chase me again. I really miss that. He was the best dad. He bought me cool stuff, like the Chuck It ball thrower and a 'Life is Good' collar. And when we lived in Portland, where it rains all the time, he bought me a really nice fleece-lined raincoat. My dad – his name was Marcus Iken, that’s where I got my last name – he also liked to grill and he always saved me a piece of steak. That’s how I learned that I like filet mignon so much.

My mom just bought a new grill so hopefully she will cook some steaks when she feels better. That is, if she doesn’t stay mad at me, maybe I’ll get some steak treats. I got in trouble from her yesterday – I was in so much trouble I got yelled at really loud and even made my mom cry -- because I went into the neighbor’s yard and I’m not supposed to go over there. What made it bad is that I didn’t come back when I was called, and I was gone a lot longer than usual. She says she called me like 20 times, but I didn’t hear her, I swear. Those neighbors took pictures of me last time I was in their yard. They were Polaroid pictures and in them I was circled and labeled “the black dog.” (Daisy was in some pictures too, they called her “the white dog.”) These neighbors are so against having dogs on their grass they showed our pictures at the city council meeting. I think they wanted me to go to jail or something.

The city council people didn’t do anything about it, and I made friends with the sheriff a long time ago, so now the neighbors are trying to find another way to keep me out of their yard. My mom is afraid they might try to shoot me or poison me or trap me in a cage and she is really scared I could get killed over there. That seems silly. There are bunnies to chase! And squirrels! The way I see it, Daisy and I are doing the neighbors a favor by chasing other animals out of their yard and keeping the vegetables in their garden safe.

But me getting in trouble added another reason my mom was upset yesterday, on my dad’s birthday, and when she was sick. I was very sorry and tried to lick her face to tell her I promise to try harder next time to listen and come when I’m called.

I hope she gets better soon because this writing a blog thing is hard work and it takes time. I’m ready for another nap. If you ever come to the American Gothic House and you see me in the front yard, my name is Jack Iken. I’m the black dog. Daisy is the white one. I like playing stick. I like having my belly rubbed.

You can Also Find Me on Facebook

2011-06-26T14:45:00.000-07:00

Just a reminder -- especially to those of you who are waiting impatiently for me to update my blog (sorry, it's been hard to write when I am baking every day for the Pitchfork Pie Stand) -- I have a "business" page on Facebook, The World Needs More Pie. If you check in over there you will get more frequent news bits and photos from me, as well as alerts -- like when I (finally!) update my blog with a new post. (PS: I don't believe you have to have a Facebook account to view the page.)

And if you're waiting for more than a blog post or tidbits on Facebook -- as in you can't wait to read my book, "Making Piece: Love, Loss, and the Healing Power of Pie" -- the good news is that not only is my memoir still on track for an April 1 publish date, but I am already at work on my next one!

Gothic House Garden

2011-06-18T20:45:00.000-07:00

Seeds planted, May 18

I am almost 50 years old and I have never planted a garden. Until now. I must feel in my bones that I will be staying put in Iowa for a while because I didn’t hesitate to make the investment – not only the financial one, but the psychological one. As I am learning – have already learned -- the rewards one reaps from a little plot of vegetables in one’s backyard are enormous. Really, WTF? Why have I never planted seeds before? Why have I never understood the meaning of roots?

One month later, June 18, it's already a jungle!

Reward #1: Because of my garden, I developed a relationship with my neighbor Don Eakins, the one who comes to my rescue whenever I am in need (i.e.: whenever I need a six-foot-long snake removed from my bathroom, an injured 20-pound snapping turtle chased out of my yard, my Mini Cooper towed out of the mud, or the snow on my sidewalk cleared with his snowblower). Don owns a handy, high-powered tiller and he is the one who took on the task of Step One: he turned a patch of my grass lawn into a garden plot. Don and I now regularly compare notes about how our vegetables are coming along. In spite of my novice gardening skills (and barely being able to tell the difference between a weed and an actual vegetable shoot), mine are looking a little more robust than his. Not that I’m competitive or anything.

Reward #2: I look forward to waking up every morning and looking out the rear Gothic window to see the progress. And my god, there is progress! You can literally see the plants growing before your eyes. I am not kidding. There is something magic in this soil. It’s black, fertile, and doesn’t require additives (like manure or Miracle-Gro). And the ample rain we’ve had, combined with just the right balance of sun and cloud cover, makes for ideal conditions. Really, this explosion-of-growth thing is its own miracle and one that brings me amazement and joy daily.

Reward #3: The ultimate reward, of course, is the edible fresh bounty. I had my first salad today – exactly one month to the day after planting the seeds -- made entirely from greens and herbs from my very own garden. Let me repeat that: My. Very. Own. Garden. I love how that sounds! And not only was the salad incredibly delicious, bursting with Iowa sunshine and flavor, everything tasted even better knowing I had planted it and picked it myself. (You won’t find E. coli in this spinach!)

Reward #4: Even more exciting is the knowledge that this is only just the beginning. Summer doesn’t even officially start until next week. I have beets, tomatoes, cucumbers, cantaloupe, watermelon, carrots, green beans, and zucchini to look forward to. Those salads are only going to get bigger and bigger. And I’m only going to get healthier and healthier. And come fall, I will harvest a whole lot of sugar pumpkins from which I can make – drum roll, please – yes, pumpkin pie! (You didn’t think I would plant a garden without considering pie ingredients, did you?)

So there it is, my own little mini farm sitting humbly in the midst of the surrounding giant Iowa farms. A piece of the earth I can cultivate, plant seeds and marvel at their growth, and in almost no time nourish my body with the vitamins that come straight out of the ground.

I never planted a garden before because I never thought I had the patience to wait for plants to grow. (Why wait when I could just go to the grocery store?) Nor did I ever think I would – or could -- live anywhere long enough to let roots take hold. (Why settle in one place when there’s a big, exciting world to explore?!) But then, of course, I never thought I would move back to Iowa. I guess it proves, once again, you’re never too old to learn something new. Or that wisdom comes with age. Either way, I'm just glad to discover I'm getting a little smarter. Even if it took 49 years.

Wayward Reptiles in the American Gothic House

2011-06-01T13:12:00.000-07:00

The new American Gothic pose? Bob, Don, the Hoe and the Snake

I was on the phone last night with a reporter from ABC News in San Francisco, Wayne Freedman. A friend of mine works at the TV station and when she heard Wayne was looking for stories about life in rural America, she told him about me living in the American Gothic House. So there I was, answering Mr. Freedman's questions about how life in Southeast Iowa compares to, say, San Francisco or LA (I have lived in both cities) and I'm telling him, "I love it. It's so peaceful and grounding. And I have great neighbors who help me till my garden and clear snow off my sidewalk without even being asked. I think that's one of the big differences."

"What do you do for entertainment?" he asked. "Like in the evenings."

It was about 6:00 p.m. when we were speaking (4 p.m. his time) and I had been sitting outside on a lawn chair drinking a pilsner, still dressed in my bicycling clothes, just back from my first outdoor road bike ride of the season. I got up to walk in the house as I began to answer his question and noticed the bathroom door was closed. I never close that door. Maybe the wind blew it shut, I thought absentmindedly as I continued describing my social life.

"Entertainment? Oh, people come over to visit. We drink wine. We eat ham balls..." I was saying as I opened the bathroom door. And that’s when my words stopped and my scream started. I screamed and screamed and screamed like an actress in a B-list horror film. But my scream was real. And Wayne Freedman’s broken eardrum can prove I was not acting.

Draped between the doorknob and the sink, blocking the door so it couldn’t open very far, was a diamond-patterned rope, like one of those very thick velvet ropes that blocks movie theater entrances. A rope? A slimy rope with scales? In my bathroom? What? No, it wasn’t a rope; it was...moving! My brain was trying to register what this thing was in my doorway. My hand was mere inches away from it, my fingers on one side of the door knob, his body wrapped around the other. It moved again. I was moving too. FAST. In the opposite direction. And screaming. LOUD. I flew out of the house, leaving the bathroom door open (which I would later learn was a mistake), still screaming in Wayne’s ear, and then, once outside, I went around to the bathroom window to look inside and examine what the hell was going on.

I gave Wayne the blow by blow report. “It’s huge!” I said breathlessly. “It’s crawling up the wall! It’s on the towel bar. It’s huge! I cannot believe how big it is!! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god! How did it get in there?” (I would have to go back and ask Wayne what my voice sounded like at that point, but I don’t think “calm” would be a word used to describe it. ) “I have to go,” I said. “I need to get my neighbor.”

I didn’t walk, I sprinted over to Don’s house, the neighbor who tilled my garden and cleared snow off my sidewalks. And towed my Mini Cooper out of the mud. He is the neighbor who saw me pulling weeds around the perimeter of my garden on Sunday and drove over on his tractor. “There’s an easier way to do that,” he said and 30 seconds later he had driven around my plot and mowed down the encroaching grass and clover.

Don was also the one I ran to the day before when I ran over a 20-pound snapping turtle that was napping under my Mini Cooper. I heard the crunch under my tires and got out to find an enormous turtle rolling on its side, clearly in pain. I had stood in Don’s living room with tears streaming down my face, feeling so badly about injuring – maybe killing – this poor turtle. Don had said, “We could call Jimmy Bedford. He eats turtle.” Which made me cry even harder.

Don’s wife Shirley smiled and said, “Oh, you’re one of those gentle souls with a soft spot.”

Don put on his shoes and came over to inspect the snapping turtle but the turtle had already crawled away. We found him 20 feet away under my living room windows, drops of blood on his head, cracks in his shell, and snarling at us. “Oh, he’ll be all right,” Don said. “It’s very hard to kill one of those. He’ll find his way back to the creek.” There is a small creek about a hundred yards downhill from my house. And I hope that's where he is now. And where he stays.

This time it was not about an injured turtle. “DON! GET YOUR SHOES ON!” I screeched. “And bring your gun!” I think I really did say that about the gun. I’m not sure if I was even joking. I was that panicked. He jumped out of his Barca lounger, turned off the TV, and hustled out the door. I was already waiting in his driveway.

Bob and Iola, my other wonderful and helpful neighbors who live next door to Don and Shirley, heard the commotion and followed us back to my house. We were now the Snake Posse.

Don’s doctor had told him last week that he needs to get more exercise. As we walked briskly down the gravel drive to my house, I teased, “If this keeps up, Don, and you have to keep coming over to my house to rescue me, you’re going to get in really good shape.” He was carrying his long-handled garden hoe, so I added, “Isn’t that the hoe you were going to loan me for my garden? I’m not sure I’m going to want to see that thing again after you’re done with it.”

Before going inside I kicked off my flip flops and put on my tall rubber boots. Never mind they were caked with dried mud and I had just scrubbed my floors. I wasn’t going to have any snake wrapping its body around my bare ankles.

The four of us peered into the bathroom and could not find the snake. “I swear I am not making this up!” I insisted.

“You should have closed the door. That snake could be anywhere,” Don said. We set off in all directions around the house on our snake hunt.

I went back into the bathroom, first looking up to make sure that snake wasn’t going to drop down from the ceiling or off a wall, but I was slightly more confident now that I had my boots on and my Rescue Team with me. “There it is,” I pointed to Don. “Behind the towel shelf, curled up around that bag of Epsom salts.”

“Boy, he is a big one.”

I backed out of the room, shut the door, and left Don to his work. Bob stood guard at the door while we listened to the ruckus. The snake had knocked all my candles and lotion bottles off the counter, towels had been pushed to the floor. My bathroom is tiny, so narrow you have to step sideways to move in and out. But there was Don, banging his garden hoe around, bravely battling the snake.

My bathroom will never be the same

Meanwhile, Wayne emailed me. “Send me a picture of it.” So I began documenting the occasion with my iPhone and sent Wayne updates throughout. When he saw the snake was getting beheaded he wrote, “You’d get arrested for that if you were in California.”

You could get arrested in Iowa too. I did an Internet search later and discovered the snake was a bullsnake, a non-venomous variety found in the prairies and good for keeping rodents from eating the farmers’ crops. I also learned it’s illegal to kill bullsnakes in Iowa.

“It was self-defense,” Don assured me when I told him. “Anyone who finds one of these inside their house is going to kill it.” I don’t think Don wanted to see me burst into tears again. Anyway, I wasn’t going to cry knowing that if the snake stuck around he could have found his way into my house again. God forbid he would turn up in my bed!

Don takes the snake for a walk...
to his final resting place

It took over an hour to end the life of this wayward reptile. How and why – and WHEN – he got in my house I will never know. “We see how you leave your back door open,” Don and Bob both harped. “It could have just come right in. I’m surprised your dogs didn’t see it.”

After flinging the corpse into the woods, we all sat around my outdoor table and drank lemonade. Bob, Iola and Don all told more tales of snakes encounters they’d had over the years. It was like sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories.

I kept my rubber boots on and sat back and smiled. I was still a little shaky, but I felt safe and content surrounded by these new friends whose company and stories – and rescue efforts -- I so greatly enjoy and appreciate.

No, this is nothing like life in San Francisco or LA. And while I do love the city life (and clearly, indicated by my screaming over the snake, I still am a city girl), I am in love with my rural surroundings.

And Wayne wanted to know what we do for entertainment in Eldon, Iowa? Well, he got a live report. He also got a first-hand understanding of why I love my neighbors so much. Now he will just have to stop by this summer for ham balls. And pie.

Pitchfork Pie Stand -- Opening May 20

2011-05-05T19:27:00.000-07:00

Hello pie fans. You may have read the article in the May/June issue of Midwest Living touting my Pitchfork Pie Stand. Well, good news. The pie stand is finally opening for the season on Friday, May 20. So far summer hours will include Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays coinciding with the American Gothic House Center hours, but seeing on how traffic goes we may expand to daily. It's not easy to feed the pie-hungry masses when you only have a tiny kitchen and one oven inside the American Gothic House. But we will do our best. Looking forward to seeing you this summer.

Resurfacing...in Los Angeles

2011-04-21T19:08:00.000-07:00

No sooner did I finish the first draft of my manuscript for MAKING PIECE, I looked up from my laptop and realized three months had passed. Spring had arrived. The snow had melted, buds were popping out on the trees, the grass had turned vibrant green and my nice neighbor Don Eakins had come over with his tiller and plowed a garden for me in the backyard of the American Gothic House. "Good," I thought. "A garden will keep me busy now that I'm done with the book. I can throw myself into this new project as a way to stay engaged, have a purpose, keep me from getting restless." (If you know me, you know I suffer from occasional bouts of Wanderlust. Restlessness is a symptom, one I fight to keep at bay.)

"Not so fast," Don said. "I still have to till a second time, and you don't want to plant the seeds too early. We may still get some frost. You want to wait until the first of May before planting."

What could I do with myself with all that time on my hands and no more pages of my book to write? I didn't even stop to think about it. I simply packed my dogs into the Mini Cooper and hit the road -- for L.A. My spontaneity took even my parents and closest friends by surprise. "You're what? You're already on your way?" Yes, well, why not? I have a window of free time before my editor gives me the (likely daunting) task of rewriting my book. I have a few weeks before I can plant my garden. And once the pie stand opens -- now scheduled for May 20 -- I will have non-stop baking that will demand my focus.

I took four days to travel West, retracing the route I took last August on my way to be a pie judge at the Iowa State Fair. Little did I know that August journey would lead to the American Gothic House and a new life in Eldon, Iowa!

On Sunday morning when I pulled out of town, I stopped to say goodbye to the mayor, Shirley Stacey. When I told her that I was taking a road trip to California, she said, "You're not moving back there, are you?"

"NO!" I assured her. "Just going there to regroup, see my friends and family, and then I'll be back to make pie. I promise."

Jack hits the trail for a 5-mile hike in Moab, Utah.

When life in Eldon gets too quiet, the road beckons -- 2,000 miles of it!

Um, we're not in Iowa anymore. (Viva Las Vegas!)

We made it safely. First stop in LA: Jack sprints toward his favorite swimming hole, the lagoon in Playa Del Rey.

So while there's no pie baking -- or writing -- or gardening -- happening at the American Gothic House for the moment, there's a lot of adventure to be had. On the road. In L.A. and all points in between. In the meantime, maybe I'll even start blogging again. Now there's something to keep me busy.

It's nice to be back.

My Apple Pie Shortcuts, As Seen on Better TV

2011-03-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

One snowy January day a television crew from BETTER TV showed up at the American Gothic House and wanted to film me making pie. Since I love making pie -- even better, teaching others how to make it -- I said, "Sure."

I showed them a few of my shortcuts, the ones I learned from my pie baking mentor, Mary Spellman, when I worked for her in Malibu. Here are the tips I passed along:

Perfect Apple Pie

Naturally, this video crew was curious as to how and why I was living in the American Gothic House. I understood their surprise. For one, you wouldn't think anyone would actually be living in an international tourist attraction. It would be like living inside, say, the Statue of Liberty. But many don't even know of the American Gothic House's existence. So I explained --with their camera rolling -- how and why I came to live here, in rural Iowa. I told them about Marcus dying, and how this house has been so good for me in this segment:

Pies and American Gothic

Both of these segments aired on BETTER TV on February 23. They will re-air on March 23. Check your local listings for TV times.

You're Invited -- Art Exibit INSIDE the American Gothic House

2011-03-12T07:19:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, March 19 -- one week from today -- from 1 to 5 PM, I will take a day off from working on my book, clear my laptop off my kitchen table, and open the doors of my house for people to come inside. The occasion is an art exhibit, to showcase the paintings of Molly M. Moser.

A few of Molly's paintings have been hanging in my house since the fall. (I blogged about the art in my house a few months ago.) But Molly has been very busy this winter. When she wasn't working as the administrator of the American Gothic House Center, she had a paintbrush in her hand, which means she has many new art pieces to add to the collection. So, to welcome the new season we are exhibiting her new work.

Photo by John Gaps III

Besides viewing Molly's display of talent, this is also a rare chance to see the inside of the American Gothic House. If you come inside, and go upstairs to see the famous Gothic window from the "other" side, you will also notice another kind of art covering the slanted ceiling: poetry -- with poems by local poet Priscilla Coffman.

Will there be pie? Sorry. I won't have time to make any. (I have that book deadline, remember?) But there will be plenty of champagne to make a toast -- to new art, a new season, and new beginnings.

I hope you can join us.

Do You Miss Me? I Miss You

2011-03-05T18:16:00.000-08:00

Do you miss me? I miss you. Writing this book is hard work and taking up all my time. I miss writing the shorter, instant-gratification, essay-length blog posts.

I miss writing about my adventures in rural Iowa, about how when the snow melted and I was so excited about the spring thaw, my Mini got stuck in the mud and my neighbor Don had to tow me out.

I miss describing things like how I had a Girls' Night Out with the mayor and city clerk of Eldon and how throughout the (alcohol-free -- SIGH) evening they talked about getting their new gun licenses, concealed weapons permits, and storm-watcher certifications.

I miss recording life's little surprises, like how I received a thank-you card from someone at Sheffield's Bar in Chicago where on National Pie Day we dropped of Baker's Square pies for the funeral of its owner, and how the card had a hand-written message on the back saying, "The world certainly does need more pie."

But right now I am exercising utmost discipline and maintaining focus. (Not easy for a restless soul and social butterfly like me!) I am keeping my phone calls and emails to a minimum and I am typing, typing, typing away at my kitchen table, creating something even bigger and hopefully better for you to read. One page at a time.

I'll be back. I promise. But right now I am pursuing my childhood dream of being a published author. Sometimes dreams require sacrifices. Missing out on a few blog posts is not a huge sacrifice. And anyway, it's like I'm writing a whole book of blog posts at once. Still, thanks for missing me. I miss you too.

MY FIRST BOOK PUBLISHING DEAL!

2011-02-22T15:15:00.000-08:00

I have been writing all my life and while my byline has frequently appeared in some of the country's top magazines, I always dreamed of writing a book, of being a published author. On Friday, February 18, 2011, four days ago--sixteen months before I turn 50, and eighteen months after my husband Marcus died--the Elusive Book Deal finally arrived.

This will be the official announcement in tomorrow's Publishers Marketplace:

Making Piece: A Memoir about Love, Loss and Pie by Beth M. Howard, the author’s story of how pie helped her heal after losing her 43-year-old husband by traveling in an RV in search of pie stories, and ultimately arriving at the American Gothic House where she now lives and bakes pie, in a pre-empt to Ann Leslie Tuttle of Harlequin Nonfiction by Deidre Knight of The Knight Agency (World English) in a very nice deal.

I should be ecstatic, I know. And a huge part of me is. But it is not lost on me that a) it took Marcus' death for me to have a story compelling enough to interest a publisher (or a subject bone-crushingly tragic enough to force my writing to go deeper), and b) I still have to finish writing the manuscript. (So far I'm one-third of the way done.)

Oh, I WILL celebrate. Trust me on that. But I'm superstitious and prudent enough to delay the celebration and champagne until I have the entire book written. Which, hopefully, will be no more than two months from now. Provided I keep my (growing) butt in the chair.

Cover art for my book?
The title of Molly Moser's painting, "Make Piece,"
inspired the name of my memoir

But let me just say this: Book deal or not, I love writing. I love the process of writing, of turning the noise inside my head into prose on the page, words that may be of guidance, or at least entertainment, to others.

Writing this particular book is no exception. Okay, maybe I'm not loving writing the parts about Marcus dying.

But even with this difficult subject matter, I find myself transported when I get immersed in a long writing session. (Funny, making pie has the same effect on me.) In fact, today I was in the middle of writing about driving the RV to LA (December 2009) when my phone rang. I had a two o'clock conference call with my agent (the phenomenal Deidre Knight) and my new editor (the gracious and enthusiastic Ann Leslie Tuttle at Harlequin Non-Fiction). Normally, I would have been watching the clock in anticipation of the call, but I was so absorbed in my writing, the phone startled me when it rang. Not only had I lost track of the time, I didn't even realize I was in Iowa. As far as I knew, I had just arrived in Santa Monica and was about to park the RV. I was admiring the blue California sky, the magenta-colored bougainvillea, and inhaling the sagebrush-scented air. It took me a few minutes to remember that I was not actually in Los Angeles, and instead was sitting in the American Gothic House kitchen. I love it when that happens.

I am so grateful that writing is my profession, that I can afford to call myself a full-time writer (and part-time pie baker), that I live in a place so peaceful and grounding that my thoughts crystallize and pour out onto the page. I am grateful that I have a team of people in the book publishing world who think I have something meaningful enough to say that they're investing their time, money, paper and ink in me.

I wrote the first page of "Making Piece: A Memoir about Love, Loss and Pie" last June and posted it on my blog. Here it is if you missed it. I didn't write another word until January 2 (ya gotta love it when those New Year's Resolutions pay off). But now, the words are coming faster, more urgently. I take it as a sign of progress, of healing, of my increasing ability -- as the title suggests -- of making peace with losing Marcus.

I hope you'll buy a copy -- or two. But you'll have to wait until June of 2012, which, coincidentally, is the same month I turn 50. Seeing my first book in print will be the ultimate birthday to myself. Now that will be something to celebrate.

Baking a Book in the American Gothic House

2011-02-09T07:38:00.000-08:00

My apologies for my infrequent posts as of late. I've been busy. Not because I was traveling to Chicago to hand out free slices of pie on National Pie Day. No, I rarely travel these days. I can almost always be found at home, in the American Gothic House, in my pajamas, 24/7, not driving anywhere for days on end, living like a hermit. But don't feel sorry for me. Sequestering myself--at least for the winter months--is intentional. I'm working on my book about pie.

I was working on a book about pie when Marcus died. The story was about how I left my dot com job to become a pie baker in Malibu, about choosing happiness and simplicity (and poverty!) over a big paycheck and business class flights to places like London (I still miss that expense account!) I was half way through this book, in fact, on the day he died, August 19, 2009.

The pie book I'm writing now is a much different one. In it, I still tell the story about trading my web producer career for that of pie baker to the stars. But the book is mostly about my grief over losing Marcus and the role pie has played in my healing. It's not an easy story to write. Reliving every detail surrounding my husband's death isn't my idea of a good time. In fact, it’s been a hellacious process as I examine and write in detail about the raw emotions of those early days, causing the pain to return all over again, as if he just died yesterday. (It’s times like these I am grateful to live alone where no one except my dogs can hear me cry.)

Besides the difficult subject matter, writing a book-length work and not just a blog post requires a different kind of concentration, an uninterrupted focus. Blogging pulls me out of that long-form story, a story I need to preserve the discipline to stick with in order to finish it. Even a back door visit from a neighbor might be a welcome 20-minute break, but by the time you find your rhythm again that 20 minutes ends up being a one-hour disruption to the writing flow. And when you have 300-some pages to write, every hour counts.

Why the hurry? Pie! It will be spring soon and once the snow melts, the tourists will come flocking back. And they will not just want pie, they will EXPECT it. So I need to be prepared to switch gears again, move my laptop off my kitchen table (why is it the kitchen is always the best room in the house to be productive and creative?!) and make room for rolling pie dough.

One more word about blogging—and why I shouldn’t be writing this post right now…or why I SHOULD. I read an article that was posted in a Yahoo! Group for journalists I belong to. It was titled: “Is Blogging Keeping You from Writing Your Book?” I can’t find the article now, but I’ve mulled that question over in my head many times—in fact, almost every time I publish a blog post. Well? Is my blog keeping me from writing my book?

The answer has finally presented itself. It has taken a year and a half to become clear. It has taken a year and a half after setting my previous pie manuscript aside and instead writing about my grief, publicly, in my blog. Writing about my pie journey, all in my blog. Writing about my difficult relationship with Marcus, the many hours of counseling I’ve needed to put my life back together, the many, many, many pies I’ve baked to find a calm center in myself again, even my “testing the love waters” again with Mr. X. It’s all in my blog. Without realizing it at the time, I see now, I have already written my book. It’s all here, in my blog.

Regardless of this revelation, for the time being, while my blog posts will be less frequent, my writing is more prolific than ever. I’ve been culling through old posts, reliving old memories, and reworking all that story-telling into a book using pie as a thread to weave it all together. I already have a new agent who is shopping my book proposal to editors this very week. Yowsa! So if you’re hungry for more stories from me, you will get them—hopefully, for purchase, at a book store near you.

And if you’re hungry for pie, you will get that too. The Pitchfork Pie Stand will be open in a few months, when my writing hermitage transforms back into a bustling pie baking center. Until then, you can find me at my kitchen table. In my pajamas.

Crazy for Ham Balls

2011-02-02T12:06:00.000-08:00

No, ham balls are not pig testicles.

On Monday I was invited to "dinner" by Eldon's mayor, Shirley Stacey. First of all, let it be known when someone invites you to "dinner" in Southeast Iowa, they do not mean come over after work. Dinner is served promptly at noon. "Supper" is the term for the evening meal, served promptly at five. For someone used to thinking five o'clock means cocktail hour and dinner shouldn't be eaten before seven, I still get confused. Even so, I managed to make it during daylight hours to Shirley's City Hall feast, where she was serving homemade ham balls. This would be only my second time to indulge in this Midwest dish.

Ham balls. What are ham balls anyway? "An elegant dish for Miss Piggy?" as one friend suggested. Or, "Like Rocky Mountain oysters?" asked another. No, ham balls are not pig testicles! They're meatballs, made with three different kinds of meat (pork, beef and some mysterious thing called ham loaf) mixed with graham cracker crumbs, then covered (er, smothered) in a sweet brown sugar-tomato soup sauce.

Welcome to Iowa.

This picture was taken in October, during my ham ball initiation.
Left to right: City Clerk Carrie Tenity, me, and Mayor Shirley Stacey

Ham balls are delicious in that hearty, filling, Thanksgiving-stomachache kind of way. Overly full or not, the temptation to have seconds was too great to resist knowing I might not get to have them again for another three months. So I -- pardon the pun -- pigged out.

I ate so many ham balls, I was in a ham ball-induced food coma for the rest of the day. I was so stuffed, tired and uncomfortable I couldn't even think straight. I was having trouble explaining something to Molly from the visitor center next door and told her, "My god, those ham balls are giving me amnesia."

"Hamnesia, you mean." Molly replied without missing a beat.

I laughed so hard I almost lost my lunch. I mean dinner.

Shirley Stacey's Ham Ball Recipe

2 lbs ham loaf
2 lbs ground pork
1 lb ground beef
3 cups graham cracker crumbs
3 eggs, beaten
2 cups milk
1 Tbsp garlic powder
1 Tbsp onion powder

Sauce
2 cans tomato soup
2-1/4 cups brown sugar
1 tsp Worcestershire sauce
3/4 cup vinegar
2 tsp dry mustard
2 Tbsp ketchup

Mix meat mixture together and roll into balls. Place on cookie sheet and bake at 350 for one hour.
Mix sauce (double sauce recipe for extra juicy).
Placed baked meat balls in Crockpot. Pour sauce over and heat until ready to serve.

Excellent to freeze ham balls and have ready for any occasion. You can also put them in a baking dish and pour sauce over them before baking.

Next time: It's Ham Ball Pie! (Pictured: A meatball pie from Pillsbury)

There's No Place Like Home (Yes, Eldon, Iowa)

2011-01-28T19:58:00.000-08:00

One week ago today I drove to Chicago, to spend the weekend participating in National Pie Day activities. Even though this "pie holiday” should have been as exciting to me as, say, Thanksgiving—after all, pie is "my thing"—it was hard to get enthused about extracting myself from the comfort of my house to make the five-and-a-half-hour drive across rural Midwest backroads in sub-zero weather, knowing my main mission was to hand out 1,000 free slices of pie on the freezing Windy City streets. I love making others happy through pie, but, really, what was I thinking?

Fine. It was too late to back out. I was going to Chicago whether I wanted to or not. And as long as I was going, I would stop at the Art Institute to see the American Gothic painting. After all, I live in the house that appears in the painting and while I’ve seen countless posters and parodies of the place, I had never seen Grant Wood’s original piece of art.

At the Art Institute, I asked the door greeter where to find the painting and, with directions in hand, made a beeline for the American Art wing. The Art Institute is a quiet, dimly lit, rather austere place, appropriately so for its collection of famous works meant to be viewed with reverence. And then I walked in. When I first arrived in front of American Gothic, I was in the gallery alone. I stood as close to the portrait as possible, in awe, inspecting every fiber of Wood’s paintbrush, every glossy stroke of oil in the man’s black jacket, examining the variances in texture in the woman’s apron, layers of paint that had been impossible to glean from the one-dimensional reproductions. I studied the house—my house. I had just left Eldon, Iowa, and here I was, looking at my own house in the painting. I felt such a surprising attachment to the place. The longing it evoked was so strong I wanted to crawl through the canvas and go inside the house, where I had been drinking coffee at my desk five and a half hours earlier. I wanted to be in my bed that sits behind the Gothic window. I wanted to sit on the couch with my dogs, who were at that moment inside the house. Without me. I was flooded with memories of my life there. All five months of it. I could see every pie I had made in the kitchen. I could smell the vanilla scent of the candles I burn every day while I write. I could feel myself opening the front door to let the dogs out. I wanted to go home.

“Ma’am, you need to step away from the painting. You’re too close.” The female guard approached me, waving me back to what she deemed a safe distance. I wanted to tell her, “I live in that house!” But she wouldn’t have believed me.

More people filed into the room, stopping in front of the painting to gawk and pose for a snapshot in front of it. Did they know the house exists in real life? Certainly they didn’t know its current resident was right behind them, feeling a homesickness that she had never known before.

Home. I haven’t had a real home for many years. I don’t even remember the last time I had a sense of home. I lived in Ottumwa, Iowa from birth until I was 12. After that, it’s a blur of temporary residences. My dad still complains about how I’ve filled up all the pages of his address book. My adult life has been a revolving door of apartments spanning from Seattle to Hawaii to New York to Germany to Mexico and beyond. But living in the American Gothic House, even though I rent it from the State Historical Society, feels more like a home than any place I’ve lived combined. I love everything about it. The uneven plank wood floors. The cracks in the kitchen doors that let in the drafts. The creaking of the front porch. The short, squatty bathtub. The weathered posts of the clothesline. I love the neighbors who come to the back door delivering homemade treats. I love the space surrounding the house, the soybean field where deer graze, and the park-like setting of my expansive yard, where my dogs chase squirrels. I love how my furniture fits into every nook and cranny as if it was custom designed for the house. I love the quiet, the solitude (well, in the winter when the tourists are scarce), the lack of airplanes overhead, the lack of cars, the lack of any noise at all.

My friends come to visit and while they too fall in love with the house, its quirks and its quiet, they all leave saying the same thing: “This is a good place for you. For now.” I bristle at their addition of the words “for now.” What if this is it? What if this is the place I will live for many years to come? And why shouldn’t it be? Just because my friends can’t imagine living 20 miles from the nearest grocery store and movie theater doesn’t mean I don’t love living in this remote setting. I prefer it.

My resistance to the weekend in Chicago was not because I couldn’t handle city life. Au contraire. I lived in Chicago 25 years ago and still know my way around like a local. I’ve since lived in Manhattan and LA and traveled in even bigger cities where English isn’t spoken. It’s just that now that I have discovered how good it feels to have a home, home is the only place I want to be.

I eventually tore myself away from the lure of the American Gothic painting—suppressing any further homesickness—and tackled the rest of the weekend with as much strength and determination as I could muster. I taught a pie baking class to a group of at-risk youth on Saturday. Then, on Sunday, we loaded up a borrowed van filled with 120 pies, generously donated by Bakers Square. Along with a team from the American Pie Council, we set up a table in a parking lot near Soldier Field to hand out free slices of apple pie and caramel/pecan/French silk pie to the game-goers.

On the big Pie Day—or Game Day, depending on how you view the world—I dressed in so many wool and fleece layers I looked fatter than the Pillsbury Dough Boy. But, by god, I was warm. In the end, it wasn’t Chicago’s frigid temperatures that challenged my endurance. It was the derogatory pie jokes made by the football fans, whose goal was to get as drunk as possible before the game began. It actually took some convincing to get them to set their beer bottles down long enough to enjoy a slice of pie.

Even if the sports fans didn’t display their best manners, I reminded myself that somehow the message of pie might still get through to them—that a stranger handing them a free piece of pie was a gesture—one too rare these days—of kindness and generosity, a display of caring and desire to connect through the simple goodness of comfort food. Beer may fill their bellies but pie fills the heart. If nothing else, those that passed up pie for Budweiser surely regretted the decision as they stood in line for the bathroom and missed seeing their team score.

My mistake was going for quantity and not quality. A thousand slices of pie was a lofty goal, and quantity is not what pie—well, my definition of pie-as-vehicle-to-happiness-and-healing—is about. Less is more. Small is beautiful. Less and small. Like living in Eldon, Iowa. At last, after my mid-January Chicago pie adventure, I am happily, safely, warmly back in the American Gothic House. There’s no place like home.

My NPR Debut: In Case You Missed It

2011-01-25T18:27:00.000-08:00

Every morning I start my day by snuggling with Team Terrier in my bed directly behind the famous window of the American Gothic House, after which I go downstairs to make a cafe latte, hitting the "on" button of the radio on my desk as I pass by. The first voices I hear each day (and sometimes the ONLY voices I hear all day) are those of the NPR hosts, either on Morning Edition, or on weekends, Weekend Edition. I'm often making pies in the American Gothic House on Sunday mornings while listening to the confident yet comforting voice of Liane Hansen. Because NPR is such a big part of my life (and has been for many years, long before moving back to Iowa), the opportunity to be on Liane's show carried more significance than any other interview I've done. I always remember how my friend Lisa Tabb's dad told her, "You'll know you've really made it when you're on 'Fresh Air with Terry Gross.'" I didn't care which show I was on -- it was still NPR and I felt extremely privileged.

The problem with caring so much about an interview like this was that I was more nervous than I've ever been when talking about pie. "It's just pie!" I kept reminding myself. Pie is supposed to be a calming and comforting thing for me. And yet I had insomnia for two nights over doing this little segment -- the night before because of stage-fright and the night after because I thought I botched the interview.

You can listen to the 3-minute segment (link above) and decide for yourself whether or not I botched it. But it must not have been too bad because I've received a lot of emails from people sharing their pie stories and telling me they were inspired to go make pie. If I accomplished that, then yes, I guess it went well.

The best part of the interview, however, was after we stopped recording I was able to tell Liane how I listen to her show inside the American Gothic House, while I'm making pies. I think she liked hearing that. I'll think she'll like it even better when she receives the apple pie I'm going to send her.

And now we return to our regularly scheduled NPR listening. Phew.

The World Needs More...Artists

2011-01-15T09:24:00.000-08:00

I had an old boyfriend who insisted that in his house he would hang only original art. This guy wasn't an artist, and he was broke, but by god he wasn't going to have any cheap posters adorning his living room walls. Even if they represented Picasso or Matisse. I remember rolling my eyes at what I considered his pretentious stance. But as I look around my house, I see now his words clearly resonated and took hold.

Family art: Grandpa's horses (left),
sister's Flower Power (right).

I'm lucky, though, to have a few artists in my family. My Grandpa Lyle was an architect, whose real passion was painting. I inherited three of his works -- two seascapes and one of horses.

My sister Anne, an actress, discovered a love for painting in her 30s. She started with small, manageable-size canvases, but once her creativity was ignited and her confidence built, she moved to giant canvases, portraying wild, whimsical, colorful scenes -- sometimes of her dreams, sometimes self-portraits.

One of her self-portraits, titled "Sky Diver," showing my sister jumping out of a plane, arms spread wide with the curved earth beckoning below, hangs in my living room. It may not be deemed worthy of a Southeby's auction but the energy and boldness this painting emits makes it priceless to me.

Does this make you want to jump out of a plane, or what!

My brother Michael also paints. His original works don't hang in my house though, as his canvas is usually a concrete wall, outdoors, on the grounds of a school or a business. He paints murals --public art-- so a whole community can enjoy the beauty.

I hit the original art jackpot when I made friends with Molly Moser, the young woman who runs the American Gothic House Center next door. I’m no art critic, I’ve never studied art, never painted (though I want to learn!), and while taste in art is very subjective, I do know this: Molly is a talented and gifted artist. I first saw her work on her website, cataloging her impressive oil-on-canvas collection—an overstuffed chair in bold black and white pattern, an empty bird cage with its door open, an elegant living room with a spiral staircase, an unmade bed with an elaborate patchwork quilt—and fell in love at first sight. “Where are all those paintings hanging?” I asked her. “If you need somewhere to put them, I’ll hang them in my house.” My argument was persuasive: “I get a lot of visitors who will see your art. You can put little price tags next to each, like in an art gallery. And besides, this house is famous for being in a painting, so just think, you can say your work is exhibited inside.”

Molly Moser's brilliance on display in my living room.

Molly's Unmade Bed (left) hangs next to my Grandpa Lyle's seascapes in my
upstairs bedroom, right behind the famous Gothic window.

Not only did I get some of Molly’s existing pieces on loan, she has since created two new ones, made specifically for me. One is a flattering portrait of my bathtub, an odd square-shaped, half-length iron tub. I say flattering, because in the painting she added claw feet, a gilded-frame mirror, and the water is not coming out of a shower head but instead from a chandelier. I had to buy it!

I only wish my bathroom was this magical! In some ways, it is.
And even more so now with Molly's painting in it.

The other was a gift. I had given Molly a prompt, insisting, “I really need a painting of pie.” The next thing I knew she delivered the goods. The painting is so perfect, so adorable, so simple, yet so representative of my life in the American Gothic House, I want to carry it from room to room so I can see it from wherever I sit. The painting depicts a lone pie in the oven. But given that it comes from Molly’s unique view of the world, you see only a corner of the oven, a hint of a red wall (a nod to my new red kitchen cabinets), and the red and white checkered pattern on the pie plate is Molly’s twist on my kitchen curtain. The pie, while it does sit on a rack, appears to be suspended in space. Molly may have been the artist painting what she feels, but in reality she captured so deftly a reflection of me. I am like that pie, alone, suspended in time and space, waiting for my grief (and now the memoir I’m writing about it) to finish baking. Iowa supports me like the oven rack, still, I’m anticipating a time when I’ll be ready, radiating and bubbling from the inside, to go out into the world again.

My newest and most treasured addition, Molly's Pie.

I keep insisting to Molly that she create a whole pie series. She says while the pie painting gave her a welcome break, she needs to finish her “lost objects” series (a tooth, a baby sock, I can’t remember the others) and is already talking about her next theme: religious satire. No matter what she creates, I’m sure I’ll still be begging her to let me showcase her work on my weathered farmhouse walls.

For as much as I'd also like to have Grant Wood represented in my house—after all, this was the house that inspired America's most famous painting—and for as many times as I’ve flirted with the temptation of buying one of the posters for sale at the visitor center, the attitude of my old boyfriend is just too ingrained in me now. I can't do it. So if anyone out there has a Grant Wood original, I’d be happy to take it on loan.

Revisiting Grandma Genny's Workplace...and Her Crumble Topping Recipe!

2011-01-12T16:28:00.000-08:00

City Clerk Ann Cullinan
with my Grandma Genny's recipe

Life back in Iowa can often be strange and wonderful. It seems every week brings a new surprise, often in the form of a renewed connection to my roots. Roots I didn't even know I still had. I came back to my birthplace of Ottumwa, Iowa for a drive-by visit this summer, only to have a peek at my childhood home, then move on and return to Southern California to settle down. I lived in Ottumwa until I was 12, then my family moved to Davenport. I graduated early from high school (to get the hell out of this boring state!) and left Iowa for what I thought was "for good" when I was 17. Fast forward 30 years later. Ha!

Never say never.

Four months after my "quick visit" to see my childhood home, I'm still here in Iowa. Grant Wood summed it up best: "I had to go to France to appreciate Iowa." I live here now, in the American Gothic House, just 15 miles from the house where I grew up with my four siblings.

I didn't expect Ottumwa to factor in much to my new life in Eldon. I figured I would gravitate toward more left-leaning Fairfield for my shopping and socializing -- and espresso addiction. What I hadn't considered is my history. I hadn't even acknowledged that I had one. I've moved many, many, many times in my adult life -- from Iowa to Washington State to Mexico, Colorado, Jamaica, Switzerland, France, Thailand, Chicago, Kenya, Hawaii, Los Angeles, New York, San Francisco, Seattle, Germany, Portland, Mexico again, Texas, and back to Portland, in roughly that order. Just reading my own list makes me tired! I’ve moved so far and so often I didn’t feel I had any roots anywhere. “Home is where you hang your hat,” my Grandpa Lyle used to tell me. An old boyfriend said something meant to be less complimentary: “A rolling stone gathers no moss.” I just shrugged it off. Who wants to be a moss-covered stone? Not me! As far as I was concerned, roots were for people who lived in boring Iowa.

But ever since I moved into the American Gothic House strange things have been happening. My memory is getting a workout, synapses dormant since childhood have been firing, new connections to old people keep appearing, and these funny little root-like stubs seem to be sprouting under my feet.

For starters, my best customer for my Pitchfork Pie Stand pies, David Vass, owns the South Side Drug in Ottumwa. My dad’s dental office was just down the street from this drug store, which had a soda fountain, and as kids we went there for milk shakes after getting our teeth cleaned. (I know, I know.) The soda fountain (and its $1.75 milk shakes!) is still there and so are many of the employees from 30 years ago, who remember my dad – and they even remember me!

A man on the board of directors for the American Gothic House Center, Steve Siegel, informed me he lives in Ottumwa—in my grandparents’ old house. Not only that, he bought the house directly from them 31 years ago. He knew my grandparents!

My dad' parents,
Genevieve and Lyle Howard

And then this week, I was told through the American Gothic grapevine that the outgoing City Clerk of Ottumwa, Ann Cullinan, was in possession of a pie recipe that came from my Grandma Genny! Ann has worked for City Hall for 43 and 1/2 years. She worked directly with my grandmother, who served as Ottumwa’s City Clerk herself for many years, and essentially took over my grandma’s job when she retired. Ann’s last day at City Hall is today so I rushed over to Ottumwa on Monday to meet her – and to pick up the recipe.

I don’t remember my Grandma Genny as being much of a cook, and certainly not a pie baker. She was a career woman! She was an elected government official! She wasn’t going to get stuck in any kitchen making all the meals. She was also a product of her generation and, like many others of her time, was enticed by the new packaged, processed, “quick and easy” products that promised to make cooking and baking, well, quicker and easier. The only recipe I inherited from my grandma was for her cranberry bread, which, years later, I found out was the exact recipe printed on the Ocean Spray cranberry package. So when I drove to Ottumwa to meet with Ann I didn’t set my expectations very high for what this recipe might be. Perhaps the pie crust was made with margarine and not butter. Perhaps the filling called for some ungodly quantity of sugar.

Ottumwa City Hall. Still the same after all these years.

I entered the elegant old building, the place my grandma had worked all those years ago, the same place I had been inside many times when she worked there. While I didn’t remember what the inside had looked like before, I knew nothing had changed. These were the same marble floors my grandma had walked, the same wooden chairs on which she sat, the same fluorescent lights under which she read her legal documents. History, nostalgia, awe – I was flooded with a range of emotions. I could practically feel the moss growing on my skin. Or were those roots—awakened and fertilized by long forgotten yet familiar ground?

My grandma spent more time in this courtroom than in her kitchen.

Ann greeted me warmly. She said she remembered me coming in to see my grandma when I was in grade school. When I was young. Long before I left Iowa to see the world. My life had barely begun back then. And now here I was. All grown up. And living 15 miles away.

“It’s not exactly a pie recipe,” Ann warned me. “It’s just for a crumble topping.”

I didn’t care. It was from my grandma. Well, it was from Ann, the closest I would ever get to my grandma now. (Genny died 20 years ago, one year after the death of my Grandpa Lyle.) I inspected the recipe, nodding approvingly that the ingredients included real butter, brown sugar and flour. “That’s the same way I make it!” I told Ann. “Oh, but I see Genny adds cinnamon, nutmeg and baking powder to hers. I’ll have to try adding those extra things.”

From the Kitchen of Genny Howard. And now it's in my kitchen.

“It’s good, I’ve been making it that way ever since she gave me the recipe,” she assured me. “Now I need my recipe card back. Let me make you a photocopy.”

Ottumwa will have a new City Clerk after today, one who will not have worked with or have even known my grandmother. But based on my experiences so far, I’m sure there will be other people in this town of 25,000, who knew her. And surely there are other people who knew me from way back when. It will be surprising, strange and wonderful to meet them again. Thirty years after I left, I am discovering so many things since my return to Iowa: the joy in rediscovering family connections, the grounding sensation of finding I actually do have roots, and that even though it isn’t France, I am happily learning that Iowa is definitely not boring.

Pies, Cupcakes, Can't We All Just Get Along?

2011-01-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

It started in October, when Nation's Restaurant News reported that trendspotter and San Francisco-based restaurant consultant Andrew Freeman predicted 2011 was going to be the Year of the Pie. “If I had one trend — one trend — of the year that I could predict, that’s why it’s in the No. 1 position, this would be the trend for pie," he said. "I think that we’re going to make room for pie shops in the next year.”

The New York Times followed up a few weeks later when Julia Moskin's article "Pie to Cupcake: Time's Up" fanned the flames. And then, on January 2nd, Bonny Wolf on NPR's Weekend Edition declared the war was over. Her piece, titled "Cupcakes are Dead. Long Live the Pie!" claimed that pie had won.

Not so fast everyone. Jezebel, the racy website for "celebrity, sex and fashion for women" held a March Madness Cake vs. Pie Tournament last spring, conceived by Jezebel's clever editor Jessica Coen (who also happens to be a basketball fan). She stated, "It's time. We've fought for far too long. The Pie vs. Cake War must come to an end! But a winner can't simply be chosen; there must be a battle, and you, dear reader, must decide the champion." There was a battle alright. Tens of thousands of people weighed in daily over several weeks. The voting frenzy and accompanying commentary got opinionated readers worked up into a meringue-like froth. The irony is this: the champion was neither pie nor cake. It was some strange hybrid that no one could quite define -- a cheesecake. And, oh, you should have heard the outrage! Who would have thought a humorous little contest meant only to be a spoof paralleling the basketball one would bring out the worst in people?

My question is this: why can't we all just get along? Why do we have to make a competition out of everything? Why can't we appreciate variety and recognize that there is room for everyone? Whether black, white, Asian, Jew, Catholic, Protestant, Muslim....whether LA Lakers, Boston Celtics, or Chicago Bulls....whether Northern California or Southern....whether Cabernet or Chardonnay....whether brownie, chocolate chip cookie, chocolate cupcake or chocolate #$&*%# cream pie... Vive la difference! That's what makes life so bloody interesting.

The pie vs. cupcake argument only serves to be divisive. And based on what I'm preaching from my pie pulpit, that's not what pie is about. Pie is about peace, sharing, comfort, healing. I love pie, but who wants to eat pie every day? I don't! And I'm someone who has devoted my whole existence to this quintessential American dessert! I crave a hearty piece of carrot cake once in a while. I am obsessed with Trader Joe's Truffle Brownie Mix. And don't let me near a plate of cookies of any kind as I can't be stopped. As for cupcakes? We don't need to kill them. They don't need to die. I say, bring 'em on. A sure way to rock my world is by bringing me a chocolate one with white frosting, a white cake one with coconut frosting, or anything with a few cheerful sprinkles on top.

You can predict all the trends you want, you can hold all the competitions, write all the opinions, and wave the flag of your choice, but consider this: pie is not a trend and should be exempt from all this maniacal hype. It has been around since the Medieval Ages. Pie crust was invented as a way to transport meat, a hard, inedible shell to preserve it. It was the Tupperware of its time. Hundreds of years later the Pilgrims embraced pie -- it travels well! -- and eventually it evolved into something more edible, something fruity, flaky and delicious. But something in our perfection-striving human nature has caused us to force pie's evolution even further. Now we compare recipes and exchange tips and argue -- yes, argue -- over whose pie is better. Can we all just relax about pie? And about cupcakes? And about basketball and religion and race? Can we stop predicting who's going to win and who likes what better and whose recipe/team/religion is best? Please? Life is too short for such petty wars. All I am saying is….forgive the pun, but it does happen to be my trademarked slogan, “Give a piece a chance.” Any kind of piece, as long as it makes you feel good, and even smile.

And on that note, may I present a compromise, the best of both worlds. A recipe from Baking Bites for "Impossible Pumpkin Pie Cupcakes." Happy baking...no matter what flavor, texture, or nutritional value you choose.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

2010-12-30T21:58:00.000-08:00

As 2010 draws to a close I would be remiss not to mention the things that helped get me through the year, my sources of survival, salves in the continuing healing of my grief. Looking back, there were many people (Alison, Nan, Melissa, Stacy, Sylvia, Susan my grief counselor, and yes, even Mr. X), places (Portland, LA, Park City, and the biggest plot twist of the year, Eldon, Iowa), and things (learning to drive the RV, the making of the pie show, teaching pie baking, being a pie judge at both the National Pie Championships and the Iowa State Fair, moving into the American Gothic House) that contributed to my well being. But out of everyone, every place, and everything there were two constant, daily, unrelenting sources of comfort and joy.

Meet Team Terrier.

That's Comfort (Daisy) on the left and Joy (Jack) on the right.

IF there is any doubt as to the benefits of owning a pet, I am living proof that a warm-bodied, tail-wagging, four-legged friend is well worth the four walks a day, the middle of the night disruptions, the barking, the trips to Petco for food, and -- as was the case this year -- the exorbitant vet bills. (Uh,yeah, add to the list stained rugs.) In the face of sometimes unbearable grief, I cannot help but wonder if I would still be here if not for these two creatures who depend so fully on me, who make me laugh until my sides hurt, who keep me in shape by demanding long hikes and stick-throwing sessions, who force me out of bed no matter how down I feel, and who -- for whatever godforsaken reason -- love me so completely and unconditionally.

Just looking at them makes me laugh. (One of these days I'll make them pose with the prerequisite pitchfork.)

Daisy is a rescue from Saltillo, Mexico. Little did she know she would end up in Iowa. (That makes two of us!) But she's adaptable and never complains, even in the midst of a very un-Mexican-like snowstorm.

How can you be depressed with Jack around? His singular love for play is infectious. He brings out the kid in everyone. And has an infinite capacity for a game of fetch.

O, dog of wonder, dog of night,
Dog with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light.

Happy New Year, everyone. May you have a peaceful, prosperous and animal-filled 2011. (And hopefully some pie with that too!)

All I Want for Christmas is...Pie Supplies, Not (Footie) Pajamas

2010-12-29T18:10:00.000-08:00

For Christmas, my mom gave me pajamas. These were not your ordinary pajamas. They were not from Victoria's Secret or Gap Body or Soma. These were bright pink fleece with a dog appliqué on the chest. So far, not soooo bad. I love pink. I love fleece. I love dogs. But the pjs were a one-piece zip-up affair with the feet in them. Yes, footie pajamas. And not just plain footie pajamas -- the feet were like built-in doggie slippers, complete with floppy ears and flapping tongue. Now I admit, I loved wearing footie pajamas long past the socially acceptable toddler years, but, um, hey, Mom, I’m not 4 – okay, er, 14 -- anymore!

I know she was proud of her purchase because all of my siblings had heard about them long before the Santa wrapping paper was ripped off the box. When I talked to my brother Patrick in Seattle, he immediately asked, “How’d you like your gift from Mom?” I groaned loud enough for him to pull the phone away from his ear. Still, his laughter came through the receiver loud and clear.

“I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in them,” I said. And I meant it. I always think about how Marcus died so unexpectedly and so suddenly, he didn’t have time to pick out a stylish outfit or groom himself before the paramedics rushed in. In his case, it didn’t matter. He was wearing what looked best on him, his birthday suit, which made it easier for them to hook up their defibrillators and needles anyway. But, yeah, I do think about how I will go out when my time comes, what situation I’ll be in, and what may or may not be covering my body. I can tell you this: it definitely won’t be pink fleece footie pajamas with built-in doggie slippers.

“You could be like Ralphie in ‘A Christmas Story,’” Patrick said.

“I’ve never seen it.”

“You’ve never seen ‘A Christmas Story?’”

“No.”

“This kid gets pink bunny pajamas from his aunt, and his parents make him wear them. That’s what your pajamas remind me of.”

“Well, they’re not going to be my pajamas much longer. I’m taking them back. Mom enclosed the gift receipt. She must have known I wasn’t going to like them.”

“Yes, I figured,” he said. “But she had fun buying them for you.”

“Yeah, and telling everyone about them.”

The pjs were from Target. I love Target. And while Southeast Iowa isn’t exactly a shopping Mecca, it does have a Target. I had decided that I was going to use the store credit to buy new underwear.

Someone either told me recently, or I read it somewhere, that they were tossing out all their old undies and getting new ones to symbolize a fresh start. I liked this logic. After all I’ve been through the past 16 months, I could definitely stand to get rid of the dingy old boy shorts and threadbare thongs, and kick off the New Year with some new lingerie. Yeehaw.

The trouble is, I got to Target and I just wasn’t in the mood. Or, perhaps, digging through the sale bins of black lace and white cotton and plaid and flowered and polka dot and everything else in every size all mixed together killed the mood. It wasn’t just the disorganized display though. The prospect of buying underwear made me contemplate my future. Will anyone ever see me in these? Will there be new love on the horizon? How can I even meet a man when I live in such an unpopulated place? And anyway, does the style or color of underwear really even matter in the scheme of life? Even if these new ones are marked down to as little as $2 a pair, do I really need to throw out the old ones which are perfectly fine?

I got so fed up with myself I threw the ones I had already picked back into the bins and walked off in a huff.

I had two other things on my shopping list:
1. Silver polish. I use my grandma’s silver as everyday flatware and her beautiful cutlery is due for a cleaning.
2. Detangler. For my hair, which is getting harder and harder to comb seeing as I haven’t cut it since July.

I wove in and out of the aisles, and somewhere in between Cleaning Supplies and Hair Care I stumbled upon Kitchen Gadgets. There I was, as instinctive as a Golden Retriever sniffing out a tennis ball, homing right in on the pie supplies. Perfect! I’m waaaaay overdue on getting a Christmas present for my niece, the 16-year-old beauty who I taught to make pie last summer. In an instant, I knew just what to get her. My adrenaline pumped, my pulse quickened, my mood lifted as I grabbed not one, not two, but five Chop N’ Scoops. I could send one to Lauren and give the others as presents later. They were $2.99! (I got ripped off paying 10 bucks for mine at that BBB store.) I also put in my heretofore empty basket a set of paring knives (my favorite for peeling apples) for my niece -- they were a crazy 99 cents -- along with a set of pastry brushes for $2.50. What a score!

As I drove home elated about buying the pie supplies (you know how I love a good bargain) I forgot all about my underwear buying mission. I figure I don’t have to really think about it again until spring anyway because as long as I’m spending the cold winter in an Iowa farmhouse the only kind of underwear I need are long ones. As for the pajamas, I shouldn’t have to worry about those again...until next Christmas.

Thanks anyway, Mom. It’s the thought that counts!

Going to Church...In my Basement

2010-12-28T15:37:00.000-08:00

My phone rang and rang and rang on Christmas Eve -- my local line, I mean -- and I knew why Eldon's residents were calling. They wanted to invite me to church. Worried about me spending the holiday alone, my new Eldonite friends were doing what I've experienced them do best: demonstrate kindness, compassion and generosity. And as kind, compassionate and generous as their invitations were, I was not interested in going to church. Period.

Church and I were never great pals. Subjected to a Catholic education (Sunday Mass, the scriptures, the prayers, the rituals, the GUILT, et al), the only reason I got confirmed -- or allowed to graduate from my parochial high school for that matter -- was because my dad was a reliable donor and my mom worked for the diocese. I knew -- really KNEW – as early as age 12, when I had to fight for my feminist right to serve as an altar girl, that this political, er, religious institution was not going to be my source of spiritual fulfillment.

So instead of answering my phone only to decline the many invitations to the 6PM candlelit service at the Living Hope Bible Church, I went down to my basement.

Now I realize that spending Christmas Eve alone in one’s basement sounds a little depressing, potentially scary, questionable, even dangerous – after all, suicide rates skyrocket during the holidays and I am a grieving widow... But no. My bike (mounted on the Blackburn Trakstand bike trainer) is in the basement. So while the rest of Eldon attended their church, I attended mine.

Just as making pie is my therapy and therefore my kitchen is my therapist's office, my basement is my church. My body is my temple. My bike is my God. I could have been sitting in a pew for an hour watching candles burn. Instead I was sitting on my bike seat, burning calories.

Instead of singing Christmas hymns, I sang along to Coldplay and pedaled to the French techno groove of my Buddha Bar collection. For good measure, though not a great biking song, I even played the “Hallelujah Chorus” from Handel’s Messiah. (Yes, I have a very eclectic mix of music.)

Instead of being in a room packed with people I don’t know all that well -- a potentially lonely experience, actually lonelier than being alone -- I was getting to know myself better, tuning in to every muscle fiber and oxygenated blood cell, every thought, every breath.

Churches are a place for some to find strength. For me, someone whose heart was shattered 16 months ago with the unexpected death of my husband Marcus, biking literally strengthens my heart. My goal is to be the Lance Armstrong of grieving widows, and that kind of salvation doesn't come from listening to a preacher on the pulpit. Exercise is a moving meditation. And meditation is a form of prayer. Prayer is considered spiritual worship. And therefore I was, to all intents and purposes, like a good Eldonite, worshipping.

I’m not sure how congregation members felt after church, but I felt GREAT after my bike ride. I took a long candlelit bath afterward. And then I talked to my family via a Skype video call. Really, it was the best Christmas I could have hoped for. You know, considering...

I’m continuing to enjoy some solitude this holiday week. So if I don’t answer my phone, please don’t worry about me. I’m probably just in the basement -- going to church.

Pie and Wine: Paired or Not, It's All Good

2010-12-20T13:43:00.000-08:00

I am drinking a glass of white wine. It’s a varietal called Albariño from Spain. The reason I am drinking this wine is because I don’t have Champagne on hand to celebrate some Very Good News I just received and, as it happened, UPS just delivered this bottle of white wine to my door only minutes earlier. Seeing as it is zero degrees outside, and therefore approximately refrigerator temperature inside the UPS truck, the wine arrived perfectly chilled. And so it is that at 2:30 on an Arctic Iowa afternoon I just opened the bottle of Albariño and am toasting to my news: the sale of my pie show.

A friend of mine in Portland who just took a new PR job sent me the wine. I was her first call. “I thought you might be able to do a story on pairing wine with pie,” she said.

I didn’t laugh at her suggestion, nor did I reply, “That’s a bit of a stretch,” but I could have. I say this because her timing coincided with a recent identity crisis in which I was questioning where I fit into the ever-expanding blogosphere, where food is one of the fastest growing subjects. I may write a blog about pie (which, if you read my blog, you know pie is more a metaphor) but I do not in any way, shape, or form claim to be a food blogger, food writer, or food anything. I bake pie. I teach people how to make pie. I eat pie. Apple is about the only pie in my repertoire, mainly because I can make it without using a recipe. Do you see many recipes on my blog? Exactly. So there you go. A singular love for pie does not a foodie make.

As for the wine pairing, I shop almost exclusively at Aldi, where the wine selection consists of a limited number of budget-priced bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, Chianti, Merlot, a few German varietals I’ve never tried, and Tempranillo, which, like the Albariño wine, is from Spain. You won’t find a bottle of wine at Aldi for more than nine bucks.

Just as I am not particular about what kind of pie I eat – I like all pie! – I am no wine snob. I like all wine! (All wine except for that pink stuff that was popular in the eighties…what was that called, White Zinfandel? And that Concord grape church stuff, Mogen David.) And while I most often drink the everyday bargain stuff from Aldi, I'm equally happy (okay, way beyond happy) to sip a 2003 Shafer Cab or Domaine Drouhin Pinot Noir – as long as someone else is buying.

With my decidedly non-judgmental stance how could I ever be an authority when it comes to wine and pie pairing? The most I could say is all wine goes with all pie. Not exactly the kind of press that would endear my friend to her client and garner her a promotion. The press release she sent with the wine suggests that Albariño might accompany an apple crisp, which is close to apple pie. Well, I don’t have any apple pie – or crisp -- on hand so I can’t comment on that, but I do have pumpkin pie in my fridge.

So here’s my scientific approach to wine and pie pairing: I like the Albariño wine, plus I like pumpkin pie. The wine is light and crisp and is the perfect complement to the cinnamon-infused custard of our favorite Thanksgiving dessert. Spain, meet America. America, meet Spain. A match made in pie and wine heaven. There! Done!

As for my Very Good News, you will have to wait more to hear about that. The VP at 3Ball Productions said I was allowed to jump for joy in my living room but not make a public announcement until the contracts are signed. Until then, it’s just me and my glass of substitute Champagne. Cheers!

More about Albariño wine

Albariño (al-ba-ree-nyo) is a white grape varietal grown in the D.O. (Denomination of Origin) of Rías Baixas, located in Galicia on Spain’s Northwest coast. Accounting for 90 percent of all plantings in Rías Baixas, Albariño wine has been likened to a Riesling for its minerality and bracing acidity; to a Viognier, because of its fleshiness and peach/apricot character; and to a Pinot Gris for its floral bouquet. Albariño pairs well with seafood dishes, which are indigenous to its seaside region and are highly prized by leading restaurants throughout Spain. Albariño is also one of the few Spanish white grape varieties produced as a varietal wine on its own and designated on labels.

The bottle I am drinking is Martin Codax 2009 Rias Baixas. $12.99/bottle (online) and $16.99 (in stores). Available at grocery stores or http://www.budgetbottle.com/ and http://www.martincodaxwines.com/.

Going to the Post Office without a Parachute

2010-12-19T14:16:00.000-08:00

Eldon Postmaster, the ever-smiling and compassionate Kathy

I made it to the post office with Marcus’ coat and bike jacket. Barely. The packages had sat on my desk for several days but I hadn’t sealed them. So before I strapped the tape on the Priority Mail packaging that held the coat and bike jacket I stuck my nose inside each. Big mistake. Because the items had been sitting inside the packages for a few days, they contained a concentrated scent – Marcus’ scent – causing my senses to go haywire. I sat down and sobbed (so what else is new!), cradling one of the envelopes, and wondered, What is it about these clothes??!!

“Get it together!” I warned myself. “Just get these in the mail. NOW!”

I was already two days behind my planned post office outing, an easy six-minute walk from the American Gothic House. It should have been no problem to get there but I managed to find more pressing matters to fill my day – like ironing my pie party aprons that won’t get used again until at least January – and thus pushed time to the limit. I ended up having to drive and even then only made it in the door five minutes before the post office closed. (One advantage of small town living is that there’s never a line at the window, no matter how close to closing time you arrive.)

When I opened the car passenger door to collect my packages, the one with the bike jacket fell into the slush-filled gutter. The snow had melted a little and when I picked up the envelope it was covered in dirty wet snow. What is it about this bike jacket?? I wondered again. Am I not supposed to send it? I shrugged off the thought and mumbled my daily mantra: “Keep moving forward.”

I watched as Kathy, the postmaster, weighed and stamped my packages, and as a kind of after-thought asked her if she would mind me taking her picture. “I just want proof,” I said, “that I mailed these." I didn’t tell her what was in the packages. When she raised an eyebrow I said, “You don’t want to know. It’s a long story.”

“What are you doing for Christmas?” she asked, changing the subject.

Here we go. This, too, could also turn into a long story, about how I had planned to drive to Los Angeles and spend a month or two, but then how last weekend’s icy trip to Davenport (Iowa), only two and a half hours each way but a white knuckle 2-1/2 hours on the way back, made me come to my senses. Eldon to the Quad Cities was hard enough, but a 30-plus-hour-drive to the West coast in winter driving conditions? What was I thinking?! Besides, once I got there I would only spend my time in LA running around to visit as many friends and family as possible, which could be considered productive in some ways, but probably not the best for keeping my stress level in check. And noting the backlog on my To Do List (like organizing logistics for National Pie Day, 23 January), probably not the best use of my time either. Once I got over the fact that I wouldn’t be running around in a t-shirt and flip flops on the beach (sniff, sniff), the idea of spending a quiet Christmas alone in the American Gothic House in snowy Southeastern Iowa didn’t seem so bad. Given that I have a long list of books I want to read, and there’s that pie memoir I keep saying I’m going to write, as well as nice, new friends here and a warm, cozy, adorable home, I’m actually looking forward to the weeks ahead.

It may look dreary outside, but inside it's warm, cozy and colorful. And smells like apple pie!

But in my typical need to include Marcus in every conversation, and as if to justify my choice to spend a traditional family holiday home...alone (oh, the stigma!), this is how I answered her: “Last Christmas was hard. It was only a few months after my husband died. This year, I just want to have a quiet holiday. I plan to take it very easy. You know, just get through the holidays.”

I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of impression Kathy has of me. Eldon may be a small town (pop. 998) but we only see each other on the few occasions I have something to send from her post office window. And in those cases I’m usually in a breathless rush on my way to run errands in Ottumwa, but always with enough spare time to grumble to her about the high cost of postage or complain about how the pecan pie I paid $42 to send via 2-day Express Mail to my in-laws in Germany for Thanksgiving took two and a half weeks to get there. (“Once it leaves the U.S. it’s out of our control,” she explained.) Regardless of what whirlwind of impatient energy I bring with me, she is always friendly and calm, even compassionate.

“Yes, that’s tough. I understand. Holidays are hard,” she said as she carried my packages over to her outgoing mail bin.

“That’s why these packages are so significant,” I started to say, watching Marcus’ belongings move out of my possession. And then I had to stop myself from saying anything more because tears welled up in my eyes. Big. Crocodile. Tears. I waved her off, ran to my car, and sobbed until long after I got home.

Actually, I only cried until it was cocktail hour. Molly, the administrator of the American Gothic House Center, who is an ace friend and all-star listener, came by after work. She let me relay the story of my day, and in return I poured each of us a glass of Tempranillo. Cheers to the bike jacket. Cheers to the cashmere coat. Cheers to friends like Molly. Cheers to better days to come.

Sending those packages was harder than skydiving. I know. I did a tandem jump once. I cried the whole flight up to 10,000 feet. What? Me, cry?! These tears were caused by my fiancé breaking off our engagement the day before. (This was five years before meeting Marcus.) Not great timing for my first sky dive, but I was on assignment for a magazine and couldn’t change the date. Leaping out the door was one of the most liberating feelings I’ve ever experienced. Never mind that I got PUSHED out the door; once I was airborne I learned what it feels like to really surrender.

Surrender is when there is no turning back, no going back inside the security of the plane.

Once out the door there is zero chance of even considering any other options. There is one choice and one choice only: Enjoy the freefall and hope for a soft landing.

Even on that day, in the face of a different kind of loss and letting go (the fiancé hadn’t died, he had merely broken a promise along with my heart), I found peace in the 10,000 feet of empty space, where I floated untethered between the airplane and the Earth’s surface. With the wind rushing past my ears and the freedom of flying filling me with giddiness, my tears immediately turned to laughter.

Marcus’ cashmere coat and bicycle jacket were on their way to Seattle and Park City, Utah, respectively. As if I had scattered his ashes to the wind, they were in a free fall of their own. But they weren’t his body and this wasn’t skydiving. I hadn’t thrown them (or him) out of a plane. I could get the clothes back if I wanted. I could go back inside the post office and tell Kathy I changed my mind. Or I could call my brother in Seattle and John in Park City and explain why I needed these things back.

Instead, I am opting for surrender. No, I don’t need to go sky diving again to recreate the experience. The knowledge is there. “Move forward,” I keep whispering to myself. “Let go.”

The tears haven’t immediately turned to laughter, but in that metaphorical empty space I’ve started thinking about what else is in Marcus’ bins in the basement. Several leather jackets, hand-crafted French leather boots (John’s size), German hunting boots, Austrian boiled wool sweaters, and, the hard one, the Banana Republic suede jacket that Marcus wore on his one-way flight to Portland 16 months ago. (Well, it wasn’t a one-way trip exactly. He did fly back to Germany. In a metal box.) In the pocket of the jacket there is still a Lufthansa boarding pass stub from his Frankfurt to Portland flight, dated 31 July 2009. Ah, the brutal reality that rests in this little three-square-inch piece of paper. I’ll work my way up to sending that suede coat and his other gorgeous clothing to friends, family, and others who can use them. But for that next feat I’ll definitely wait until after the holidays.

Until then, the only packages I’ll be taking to the post office are the Christmas presents I’m sending to my family in California – souvenirs from the gift shop at the American Gothic House Center – gifts that, it’s pretty safe to say, may still cause me to gripe to Kathy about postage prices, but not send me home in tears. Meanwhile, I look forward to news from my brother and John that their packages arrived. The best Christmas present I could ask for is to know they like their gifts. From Marcus. From me.

Sweat, Tears and Boxes in the Basement

2010-12-16T11:48:00.000-08:00

I've been spending a lot of time in my basement lately. Why? Because it's zero degrees outside, my basement is dry and spacious, and Marcus bought a bicycle trainer before he died and I figured I could put it to use. A trainer is a bike stand in which you hook up your rear tire to a resistance unit, a rolling cylinder that allows you to pedal, shift gears, and pretend you're riding up mountains or across Iowa prairies, all while staying in one place. Like the comfort of the heated basement in the American Gothic House.

I had been thinking of turning my basement into an exercise room for a few weeks now. But like most people do with exercise, I procrastinated. The only thing I would have to do to transform the space into a home gym was break down my empty moving boxes, and push the big plastic gear-filled tubs to the sides. Several of those tubs contain my pie baking supplies, however, others contain Marcus' stuff. The stuff I should let go of, but am still clinging to. Sixteen months after his death I am still trying to make peace with giving his things away. Warm things. Winter clothes that I told myself this time last year could be used by people in need, like the homeless or the poor or the cold. These days I am feeling braver. Almost healed. So I thought, okay, I'm going to try again.

I opened the lid of one of the bins and pulled out a brown cashmere coat. Marcus bought it during one of our trips to New York and had worn it so often the image of him in it was indelible. I couldn’t give this to a stranger! But I could give it to my brother in Seattle. It's cold there, he could use it. I took out a pair of hand-knit socks and a pair of suede gloves to send along with it.

I also took out a bicycle jacket, a silver sleek, windproof, fleece-lined thing that Marcus bought two months before he died at the Assos factory store in Switzerland. Factory store or not, he must have paid the equivalent of at least 300 bucks for it. (I must say, he had exquisite but expensive taste.) He had bought me one too, for my birthday in June. Mine was pink, and I found it in his luggage after he died. (I won’t even go into how heart wrenching that moment was.)

I had never seen him wearing his new jacket except for in a few pictures. The photos were taken in Zurich, during a day-trip with his cousin's 12-year-old son, Felix. Marcus was playing the role of big brother or uncle to Felix, it doesn't matter which -- what I remember is how he called me that day from Zurich sounding so excited that he was giving this kid his first "international" experience (it was Felix’s first trip outside of Germany) and how, during an elegant Swiss lunch, he had introduced Felix to the culinary joys of Carpaccio.

John attaches Marcus' cuff links prior
to walking down the aisle. 20 September 2003,
Alpirsbach, Germany

The prized bike jacket, I had decided months ago, would go to our friend John Climaco. My relationship with Marcus started in large part because of John and his wife Laura. John and I worked together at my Big Fat Dot Com Job in San Francisco in 1999, and when he and Laura got married in Florence, Italy in 2002, Marcus joined me for their wedding. It was my first date with Marcus. He was only going to stay a day or two, but when he stayed the whole week, it became clear our “date” would lead to much more.

In turn, John and Laura came to our wedding in Alpirsbach, Germany, serving as our Best Man and Maid of Honor. When Marcus died, Laura was seven months pregnant with her second baby (a girl), and in one of those Circle of Life ways, John and Laura surprised me by asking me to be little Athena’s godmother.

Marcus would have liked that. And John would like the bike jacket.

One coat, socks and gloves for my brother and a bike jacket for John was not exactly the generous give-to-the-homeless/clear-the-basement effort I had in mind, but it was a step. I was even slightly proud of myself for my courage to let go of these specific items, so symbolic and loaded with memory. I brought the coat and bike jacket upstairs and packed them into mailing boxes.

Later that evening I went for my inaugural basement bike ride. It wasn’t easy setting up the bike trainer. It’s a Blackburn Trakstand Ultra, a high-end piece of equipment, and it had never been used (underscoring Marcus’ lost dreams and goals for his future). The back wheel didn’t stay locked into place, the tire dragged on the floor burning rubber, and the front wheel was squirrely. But after a few outbursts of profanity I managed to get everything straightened out.

I was pedaling up the mountain, so to speak, and the more energy I exerted the more I felt my cells release the impurities held inside each one of them. The harder I pedaled the more the residual gunk came unstuck from my membranes and exited my body via my sweat. The sugar from all those Candy Cane Joe Joes I’m addicted to. The alcohol from the red wine. The fat from many years of bacon cheeseburgers. And not just the physical but the psychic gunk too. Grief lingers in my cells like plaque hardened on arteries, and heavy exercise taps into this well of grief, a spring that bubbles far below the surface where I prefer it to stay. I used to love long distance running, but I don’t run anymore because when I have tried I’ve only ended up doubling over with sadness in the middle of my workout, bawling so hard I was unable to continue. When you’re three or four miles out on a trail carrying a heavy load of grief, believe me, it’s a long walk home.

I didn’t have the reserves during the first year after Marcus died to manage this deep, cellular level grief. But having had time to heal, rebuild a support system, gather emotional strength, and move to the peaceful prairielands of rural Iowa, I am better equipped. Besides, on a stationary bike, the risk of having a grief burst miles from home is eliminated. If I have an emotional breakdown I can just go back upstairs. To my bathtub and a glass of wine.

I turned up the volume on my iPod as high as it would go and keeping pace with the music moved my legs as fast as they would go. And there, in the safety of my windowless (soundproof) basement I once again touched the void. The recognition that I was using Marcus’ bike trainer crept in, along with the image of his post-office-ready coat and bike jacket on my desk upstairs. And then the flood gates opened. Along with a slide show of mental images of my late husband came the tears. I continued pedaling as long as my legs would hold out, until I practically collapsed. Spent, I laid my forehead on the handlebars and just sobbed. Puddles of tears gathered on the floor, and I was cognizant enough to have the thought “Good thing the floor is concrete.” Sheesh.

My body is like Marcus’ bins of clothes and gear. Inside it my grief has been in storage -- with the lid firmly in place. I’ve been hanging onto it, reluctant to let it go. Letting go of the grief, like letting go of Marcus’ clothes, means letting go of him. I don’t want to lose anymore of him than I already have.

And so, like a snake shedding yet another skin from the inside out, I let the tears come. Crying can be as helpful and cleansing as exercise, clearing out the debris and making room for the new. And because I was both exercising and crying, I figured I would be twice as well off after my little “work out.”After an hour, I wiped the snot from my nose on my shorts, changed back into my overalls, and left my heap of sweaty (and snotty) bike clothes on top of the washing machine.

What happens in the basement stays in the basement.

I headed back upstairs feeling depleted but a little bit lighter, my eyes puffier but my cell membranes more fluid and freer than before I started my bike ride. A few calories burned, a little less burdened by grief, and with memories of Marcus still fully intact, it was all a win-win.

The packages with Marcus’ belongings are still sitting on my desk, but I have willed myself to go to the post office today. I will muster up the strength to say goodbye to a few more pieces of the man I loved -- still love -- and take heart in knowing they will be appreciated and well used by people Marcus knew and cared about.

Also on my agenda for today? It’s back to the basement for me. I have clean bike clothes, a rocking new play list on my iPod, and a box of Kleenex. Just in case.

The Pie Teacher

2010-12-13T09:49:00.000-08:00

When I was 22 I took a career interest test. I had always wanted to be a writer but my parents didn't consider writing a real job. But if not a writer then what would I be when I grew up? In a fit of desperation to find out I consulted a career counselor. The test results suggested I become a hair dresser or a florist. What???! While I recognized the value of these jobs and the fact these high scores showed I possessed a strong sense of aesthetics, I was, at the time, insulted. (Okay, fine, I was incensed.) Further, I was advised by the career counselor, "You scored lowest for teaching. Do not ever plan on becoming a teacher."

Which is why, on Thursday -- 26 years after taking that career test -- I found it somewhat miraculous to be standing in a classroom in front of 26 high school students at Cardinal School in Eldon, Iowa, teaching them how to make apple pie. Me, a teacher.

I was originally invited to speak to the freshmen and sophomore Literature Enhancement class about my career as a writer. That’s right. After trying on many other salary-earning pursuits for size – sales, public relations, coffee entrepreneur, and a summer as a forest ranger -- I finally mustered up the courage to defy my parents regarding my career path. I had had a lot of practice defying them for everything else, but my professional life was somehow the last stand I took against them. I officially became a writer after my Grandma Genny died and left me just enough of an inheritance to buy a laptop and printer and pay for a UCLA Extension class called "How To Write for Magazines." I was 30.

Fast forward to my current age -- and no, I’m not going to lie about it, I'm…cough, cough, 48 -- where I can say I’ve been successful because I have accumulated a fat portfolio to show for it, with articles published in magazines including Elle, Shape, Fitness, Sports Illustrated for Women, Travel & Leisure, and, don't tell my mother, Playboy. I’ve written a memoir about living in Germany (for better or worse, not published). And I have been writing this blog, The World Needs More Pie, for the past three years. It was because of the public nature of my blog – and its dependence on technology -- that the teacher, Patti Durflinger – or “Miss D” as she is called -- brought me into the class.

The technology component is significant because the school has a well-funded program which provides each student with their own Macintosh laptop. Lucky them. The school’s mandate is to utilize the computers to the fullest in their curriculum, which is why Miss D originally suggested I give my talk via Skype. Seeing I live four miles from the school, I thought this was a ridiculous notion. “Let me come in person,” I said, adding, “and I’ll teach them how to make pie.”

I can’t explain exactly how I made the leap from writer’s lecture via Skype to teaching pie-making in person. Maybe it was because of my own history, how I rebelled against a high-tech (high paying) web producing job in order to do something tactile. Creating virtual environments online made me in turn crave creating something tangible, something you could touch, taste and smell, for god’s sake! Technology and its simulation of real life is no substitute for, well, real life. So during the height of the dot com boom I traded one extreme for another and became a (minimum wage) pie baker in Malibu.

The adorable Miss D

I promised Miss D, however, that in spite of my apparent conflict of interest I wouldn’t bash on technology. I would instead try to tie the benefits of technology into my lesson. After all, I would sooner cut off my arm than live without high-speed Internet. I also suggested as a compromise they video tape the lesson, so they could still use their tech equipment and I would have some instructional footage to use for my pie website.

In spite of my best intentions I was dreading going to school. School, to me, has always felt akin to being locked in a cage -- too confining and so contrary to my free-spirited nature that I spent most of my student years looking for ways to escape. I won’t go into all of my bad, detention-awarded behavior, but my parents, principal and I found a win-win in the end with me graduating a semester early from high school and a full year early from college. I’m no brainiac; I’m just impatient. As the saying goes, “Where there’s a will there’s a way.” I was born with an abundance of will.

Unlike my own high school track record of tardiness I made it through the door of Cardinal School well before the final bell at 8:15 a.m. After all, I am a responsible adult now! And I am no longer a student but a teacher! I carried my tub of pie supplies into the Home Ec room and laid out all the rolling pins, bowls, measuring cups, and pastry brushes, and awaited the onslaught of hormone-raging teenagers.

They filtered in, coming in waves, dressed in sweatshirts and jeans, backpacks slung over their shoulders and with cell phones firmly placed in hands. Miss D kept count so when I heard her say “26” I knew it was show time.

I have taught many people how to make pie over the years, but never in a group of more than eight. The size of my pie classes is contingent on available oven space. The Home Ec department at Cardinal has five ovens, only four of them work, but based on capacity of eight pies per oven, we could accommodate this large group. Well, the ovens could accommodate. I wasn’t sure how I would do.

If you have met me then you know I am bossy, opinionated, and when I get set on an idea there is no getting me to back down. I put these personality traits to work in my new role as school teacher. I greeted the class, briefly introducing myself as world traveler, writer, widow, pie baker and Native Iowan, and then immediately engaged the kids by having them wash their hands and choose an apron from my personal collection of the most hideous, old-fashioned aprons one can own. After that the next three flour and sugar-filled hours are a blur. It was as if I entered an altered state, a place where my focus was so extreme nothing else outside of the present moment existed. I wonder now, is teaching always like this? Is it the kind of job where you’re so engaged you not only don’t watch the clock, you’re not even aware if there’s a clock in the room? And if it is, could this be a good job for me?

I could explain to you how everyone was spread out around six long tables, how I had to stand on a chair to be seen, how I had to talk loud and fast and deliberately to keep everyone’s attention, and how I raced around the room (thank god I wore my sneakers…and deodorant) from student to student to student to offer my assistance or approval on their pie progress, but I’ll let the videos below speak for me. I can only shake my head when I watch the clip of me giving apple peeling instructions while standing on a chair in my overalls and checkered apron. I’m part schoolmarm, part stand-up comedian. Did the students think I was bitchy or funny? I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t have time to care. We had 26 pies to get in the ovens!

APPLE PEELING

MAKING PIE DOUGH

SHAPING AND ROLLING PIE DOUGH

PIE IMPROV: USING WATER BOTTLES AS ROLLING PINS

I used the 45 minutes of baking time to give my speech. My life story. At least a few snippets of it. And I used the opportunity to convey a few lessons I’ve learned in life: 1. Learn a foreign language while you’re young, it’s harder to learn as you get older. 2. Good communication skills, including proper grammar and ability to write, provide the foundation for everything else. 3. Exercise. A strong body is a strong mind.

My talk was interrupted by smoke billowing out of one of the ovens. It was nothing serious, just overflowing pie filling, but it signaled the pies were done.

What a sight to behold. Twenty-six pies lined up on a table, surrounded by 26 beaming, bouncy teenagers who couldn’t wait to cut into their works of art. Every single pie looked perfect. Perfect in that homemade, no-two-are-alike kind of way. They weren’t allowed to cut their pies until after lunch, when they had cooled, and it gave them time to think about whom they would share their pie with. Sticking with the theme that “Pie Heals,” I set a mandate that they give away at least one slice to someone in need, someone who might be going through a hard time, having a bad day, and needed cheering up.

They really liked this idea of giving pie away to make others happy and they took it seriously. I was so impressed with this as well as everything else they did during the course of the three-hour class. They went from not wanting to get their hands dirty in the dough, to not wanting to put the dough down. They were very flexible when told we were short on rolling pins and some were going to have to roll their pie crust with water bottles borrowed from the athletic department. They listened, they participated, they asked good questions, they jumped right in to do the work, they asked for help when they needed it, and they helped each other. If the dough was stuck to the table, extra apples needed peeling, or a pastry brush was in demand, I watched as they came to each other’s rescue.

When I got home instead of being drained after the chaos and constant motion I was energized. I was as beaming and proud of the students’ efforts and outstanding results as they were. Maybe even more so. What was that Swedish proverb I just quoted in my last post? Ah, yes. “Joy shared is joy doubled.” If joy shared is joy doubled, then what is joy shared times 26? I’ve been baking pies for three months straight for the Pitchfork Pie Stand, and while baking makes me happy, I’ve never been as fulfilled as I was giving birth to 26 new pie bakers. Days later, I'm still ecstatic.

I’m not sure how I would do as a full-time teacher, but I’m just sorry it’s taken me 26 years to discover the results of that career test were wrong. Very wrong. I hope this is only the beginning of a lot more time spent in…yes, in school.

**To get another perspective on my pie class at Cardinal School, see the article that appeared in the Ottumwa Courier the following day. On the front page.

Why We Blog

2010-12-10T12:11:00.000-08:00

My friend Jill is a gorgeous, sassy, accomplished, articulate friend (and fellow pie baker) who asked my advice on her new blog. She was feeling insecure and deflated after her husband so generously offered his opinion. "My husband thinks blogging is a waste of time."

In fact, her husband feels so strongly, and so negatively, about this he wrote a diatribe against the whole social networking trend on -- oh the irony -- a blog.

"The underlying impulse behind all this frantic networking is the veiled desire to affirm both one's ego and one's identity," he vented online. "The result is a gusher of trivia that is almost psychotic in its ferocity and pathetic in its quest for attention. But perhaps its greatest fault is that by embracing trivia and fostering human contact it demeans the English language. In the course of its flippant abbreviations both of speech and thought, it banishes certain values, which it has taken centuries to develop and, in place of creativity, it champions banality and encourages self-adulation."

His tone was critical, closed minded, and, let's face it, archaic, but still, I couldn't shake the dark cloud his opinion had cast upon me. It caused to stop and take stock of my own essays -- er, blog posts. Was I being self-adulating and simply trying to affirm my ego in my efforts to share my life's challenges and adventures? Was I merely seeking attention? Further, do other people even care about what's going on in my life? I mean, everyone has their own unique universe to focus on without wasting their time reading about mine.

There was a time -- only three years ago in real time, the equivalent of three decades in Internet time -- when I shared Jill’s husband's sentiments. I even wrote my own diatribe against Twitter and Facebook -- yes, on my blog, which at the time was brand new. It was my fifth post, to be exact. There are still many aspects of my story that still hold true -- like the importance of spending real life face time with people, getting away from the computer to exercise and get fresh air, and creating something artistic – like pie – with your own hands. But my opinions -- and my life -- have evolved considerably since then.

Which is why I was quick to reply to my friend's email. "No, Jill!" I wrote. "I know you love your husband and respect his opinion, but he is wrong. Social networking is an invaluable communications and marketing tool. And seeing as you're the bread winner, he has no room to talk. Go ahead and put yourself out there. You have every right to express your own creative voice."

My mother might side more with Jill’s husband. She has always told me I tell people too much. "Things you say could come back to hurt you," she warned. It's a good thing she doesn't read my blog because not only do I tell people a lot, I tell them EVERYTHING. I am a firm believer that “honesty is the best policy” and what I have learned from living by this creed is the only thing that hurts is staying silent.

Try telling Kelly Sedinger that blogging is a waste of time. If you do, you'll probably get a pie in the face.

On Sunday I received an email from a man in Upstate New York who has become a regular reader of my blog, which he discovered not from doing a Google search for pie, but for bib overalls. I find this highly amusing as wearing overalls ranks somewhere near the bottom on my list of attributes. Nonetheless, he wasn’t writing to me because of my farmer pants. This stranger (Kelly Sedinger, who I would now consider, well, a Facebook friend at the very least) was writing to tell me how much he appreciated my raw honesty about grief, about my long, emotional and sometimes suicidal process of dealing with the loss of my husband, and how my stories have helped him deal with his own grief over the loss of his two-year-old son. He also told me how he and his wife have used pie (coconut cream) to help heal, though in a most unusual way, by throwing it in each other’s faces!

I have received many emails like this (minus the pie throwing part) since Marcus died, since I began pouring my pain out onto the virtual pages of the Internet. Not a “gusher of trivia that is almost psychotic in its ferocity and pathetic in its quest for attention,” as Jill’s husband says. No, I’m gushing about REAL life. There are people out there who have no one to relate to, to talk to, to share with – for one, because our society is so reluctant to open up about death and other difficult subjects. And so, I relate, talk, share. And people, like my overall-wearing, pie-throwing reader in New York, relate, talk, and share back.

My friend Christine Buckley just started a blog called Seeking Shama about her cross-country road trip to help resolve her “existential crisis” after getting fired from a job she didn’t even like. She’s 41, fit, beautiful, well educated, highly employable, and, at face value, has nothing to complain about. Surely Jill’s husband would have a field day with this one. He would call it “banality,” while so many others are so starved for soul-searching stories like these that her essays are now published on the Huffington Post. I can just picture him fuming over this.

We, as human beings, need each other. We need to share our stories no matter how trivial, dramatic, or death-related they might be. We need to be honest. If we don’t share things, things that scare us or fill us with shame, what happens to all that fear and shame? It’s like I’ve said about grief when the baby rabbit died: Emotion is energy that needs to get out of your body. If you don’t release it, it will manifest itself in other ways like disease. Or, as my friend Nan reminds me, “Disease comes from dis-ease.” We need to share the good stuff too, the happiness, the victories. A Swedish proverb sums up in 12 words (plenty short to be posted on Twitter) perfectly: “Shared joy is a double joy; shared sorrow is half a sorrow.” If you get instant gratification -- or relief -- from sharing your joy and sorrow and everything in between over the Internet, well, good!

As for the “flippant abbreviations both of speech and thought” -- and countering my own initial reaction of “who cares what I’m doing now” -- I've come to enjoy the banter on Facebook and Twitter and marvel at the creative use of English. It really is like learning a new language, one that is short, to the point, and often twisted in ways so funny I laugh out loud. Flippant is good. Irreverent, even better. Thank god for the social break that these social networking sites provide amidst stressful or sometimes uneventful days. I live in a rural area and to be connected with smart, sophisticated, successful types from NYC to London and beyond keeps me from feeling cut off from the outside world, it stimulates my mind and keeps me from sinking into the vortex of despair where one can go when lacking human contact. Out there on Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn and beyond is a big, entertaining, often useful conversation going on 24/7 that I can drop in on anytime I feel the need for some company or want to speak my mind. And god knows, it's better than TV. Harmful to our language? Hardly. You want to talk about the demise of English? Come to my town where there’s rampant use of the word “ain’t.”

Social networking, and blogging in particular, is not a waste of time. It is an essential means of broadening our minds, our creativity, our friendships, and, mainly, our connections. Man is not meant to be alone and if we find each other in cyberspace, so what. It’s a good place to start. And after making those initial connections, sharing our stories with each other, and discovering common ground from which to launch meaningful relationships, there's a lot further we can take them. I look forward to meeting my blog readers, fellow bloggers and Twitter followers in person. And my life will be so much richer for it. All because of a of a little blog about pie.

I wish I could give you the URL to Jill’s blog, because she really is a great writer with a wicked sense of humor. She’s got the kind of charming voice where she can sling insults and make them sound like compliments. Kind of like getting a coconut cream pie thrown in your face. It’s so delicious you don’t even mind how it arrived in your mouth! She has talent. She also has a wonderful little business, which deserves to succeed. But Jill isn’t even her real name. She loves her husband, even though he is resistant to change, and I don’t want to offend her anymore than I already have, so I’ll stop there.

Everyone has a voice that deserves to be heard. Where and how are you sharing yours? Creating a blog is free. Ditto for Facebook page, Twitter and LinkedIn. And by all means, please feel free to connect with me on Facebook or Twitter (worldneedspie).

Murals Make a Difference

2010-11-30T18:00:00.000-08:00

My brother, Mike, is the coolest. He runs a non-profit business called Operation Clean Slate in Southern California, where he paints murals with school kids to fight graffiti. Or as he calls it, a "campus beautification program." The premise is that kids -- or taggers, as graffiti vandals are called -- want recognition, even if it's negative recognition. Even if it lands them in Juvenile Hall. But Mike knew that if the kids painted "authorized" murals they would not only get positive recognition, they would help protect their public art against other taggers.

He learned this when he had a job teaching at Juvenile Hall. He conducted a survey to find out why these kids ended up in, well, kiddie jail. The answer was overwhelmingly graffiti, a national problem which costs tax payers $10 to $15 billion annually. It was either this revelation or the fact that a couple of particularly bad seeds tried to escape and part of their plot was to kill their teacher (Mike) if necessary, that prompted him to leave his teaching job and create Operation Clean Slate.

Check out his new time-lapse video of creating a mural from start to finish. Love the surfer-music sound track!

The point is, it's been going strong ever since -- going on nearly 20 years. His work has evolved to be less about graffiti and more about promoting healthy living. His mural themes focus on fitness, pedestrian safety, anti-tobacco, water conservation, and eating more vegetables.

Now if I can just get him to shift his theme to Eat More Pie.

The LA Daily News just published an article on the positive effect his work is having on the community. I know I'm proud of him and the work he does. I've painted on several of his projects and it's as fulfilling as baking pie and giving it away. Regardless of whether it's pie or paint, he's doing his part to make the world a better -- and more beautiful -- place.

To sponsor a mural, make a donation, or get involved, contact Operation Clean Slate directly.

Pie, American Gothic Style: My Latest House Guest Writes About Her Stay

2010-11-24T18:19:00.000-08:00

I don't normally do this, re-post someone else's blog, but this story by Christine Buckley still resonates with me. Christine was my latest house guest at the American Gothic House and she wrote about her pie baking experience here. In her piece, she truly captured the essence of pie and how it heals, something I am still attempting, after hundreds of my own blog posts, to articulate. She's on a cross-country, soul-searching road trip, and Eldon, Iowa was just another stop along her planned three-month journey. I like to think it will be her most memorable one.

Christine and her Prius, ready to get back on the road.

If you are a Facebook friend of mine (or you "like" The World Needs More Pie page on FB), then you've already seen her story. But I felt it warranted a place here, a little more permanence (if that concept is even possible in the blogosphere), so here it is-- Christine's Seeking Shama blog, where the Pitchfork Pie Stand makes its debut.

Christine is also blogging for the Huffington Post and rumor has it she'll be posting something about the American Gothic House there too. I hope she'll write about our night volunteering for Bingo at the community center and going for milkshakes at the Southside Pharmacy -- and, of course, more about pie. We shall see.

Christine's new blog design was created while she was here, upstairs in the American Gothic House. Using Skype to connect screens with webmeister Shanti Sosienski, they used 21st century technology in this 19th century house. Pretty cool!

One last word, then I have to go back to the kitchen and check on my pies in the oven: I highly recommend this road trip, drive-to-self-discovery kind of travel to anyone as you never know what road sign will lead you to a new and surprising destiny. Um, Crater Lake. American Gothic House. Just saying. I hope Christine will find what she's looking for out there on the road. Or, better yet, it will find her. Either way, it's sure to be -- and already has been -- an exciting adventure.

The American Gothic Hotel is now taking reservations for the next house guests.