The emails frequently read: “Fellas, PIE Day will be (insert day here). Who’s in?’’
PIE Day is the call for the fellas – Dan and Jeff – to show up in my kitchen for a piemaking session. PIE Day means we’ll be making apple pies, then giving them away to whomever we determine to be a deserving person. PIE Day means these three retired teachers will wear old clothes, bring good stories, laugh their way through the morning, and solve the issues of the day.
White House ineptitude. Wars in the Middle East or Ukraine. Bill Belichick’s manipulative 24-year-old girlfriend. The antics of immature high school athletes. No topic is off-limits.
The hilarity of these sessions is topped only by the benevolence of apple pie deliveries.
This all began when the late Jim Spilman, the heart and soul of Morristown Fuel and Building Supply, offered me a slice of his tasty homemade apple pie. If Jim Spilman could make apple pie, I figured I could too. Plus I could draw on the tutelage of my maternal grandmother, Nora Maxwell, who must have been extremely fond of her daughter, Eileen. Grandma journeyed 120 miles north many winters to endure four months with six bickering grandchildren and freezing winds howling off the St. Lawrence River.
If you weren’t being a butthead, Grandma would let you help her bake. I watched how she diced her apples finely and carefully measured her ingredients. So I carried forth those lessons and, with a similar recipe, began making pies with my daughters, Katie and Claire.
Death in the family? We’d place a pie in a pizza box, add a PIE Network label with its big, green shamrock, and leave it on someone’s doorstep. Graduation? New baby? Milestone birthday? We got around as much as the Amazon trucks.
The piemaking moved to a whole new level – Applepalooza – 10 years ago when my friend JoAnne offered the contents of four apple trees. With Dan’s help, we skinned and diced enough apples to fill 47 one-gallon bags. We stashed them in freezers everywhere, then hauled them out when an apple pie was needed. We started making humorous videos, then decided that if there networks for ABC, CBS and NBC, we would be the PIE Network.
On this Friday, the forecast called for morning rain, which meant we wouldn’t be squandering good golf weather. Before the fellas arrived, the sugar and cinnamon were mixed. The diced apples had been removed from the freezer and thawed. The flour, Crisco, vinegar, water and egg yolks were ready for mixing. Lastly, I streamed some Ella Fitzgerald and Louie Armstrong music from my phone. Mary had issued her standard warning: Clean up after yourself, as if we were going to soil her kitchen shrine.
When my crew gathers, we don’t make one pie; our assembly line cranks out 8 to 10 per session. We have time to cover a lot of diverse topics while the flour flies and the dough rolls.
I told about the boneheaded high school lacrosse player who slashed his opponent (1-minute penalty), then turned to my partner and yelled: “WTF are you looking at?’’ The ref, although incredulous, simply tossed another penalty flag and added a conduct foul (30 seconds). He could have ejected him.
“What was that? What a dumb ass!” remarked his teammate next to me. When I asked whether he was protesting the ref’s call, he replied, “No. I’m just upset with my dumb-ass brother.’’ I left the flag in my belt; the kid understood the situation.
The effects of the norovirus came up next. It was a gift from Katie’s roommate, and to say it ran through our family was no understatement.
Dan, who always manages to get off a good line, or three, related how he contracted norovirus during a cruise and couldn’t leave his cabin. “I was like a 747 dumping fuel over the ocean.’’
That wisecrack came from the same guy who, upon cutting both palms while skinning apples, once remarked: “I’m carrying the stigmata (wounds of Christ). I look like Padre Pio.’’
Jeff always comes armed with golf or teacher stories. Get him to talk about making home visits as a teacher, and he’ll recall how he knocked on the door of an elementary student’s home. The boy wanted $50 before Jeff could conference with his mother.
“Fifty dollars to talk with your mother?’’ Jeff wondered.
Replied the boy, “That’s what the other men pay.’’
But on this day, we were in our uber naïve senior-citizen mode when Dan told the story about driving past a business with the sign “Taylored Kitty Waxing.’’
“Who could do such a cruel thing to a cat?’’ Dan wondered.
Then his wife explained the business was intended for Brazilian waxing. Oh, now we get it.
Three clueless teachers can learn a lot while making pies.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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