Across the country, fortunate people are preparing Thanksgiving dinners. Some spend days developing gourmet dinners, others host homespun potluck get-togethers. And some families gather at favorite restaurants for no-fuss feasts. I've heard that a local bakery has orders for 2,300 pies. That's a lot of baking to be done.
"...2 C flour...1 t salt...2/3 C shortening..."
My mother made the pies in my family. Several years ago, that task passed on to me, and although I faithfully follow Mom's recipes, I have mixed results. I can't shake the feeling that somewhere between "...Mix with fork until crumbly..." and "...Add 6 T cold water. Mix well..." I've missed something. I stare at the recipe. I know it by heart. It's written in my mother's handwriting, and I know that her swirly capital 'C' stands for 'cup', a small 't' means 'teaspoon,' a large 'T,' tablespoon.
It's what isn't written that tugs at me, I decide, dividing the dough in half and rolling it out for piecrust. Each year I remember something more about Mom's pies, and add another mental note to the recipe...pierce the dough with a fork...pinch the edges...cover with foil to avoid overbrowning...
Subscribe
Who'da thunk it? Our man Mark Lipinski made the Washington Post! Read all about the mob scene at the Houston Quilt Festival in this 
