Oh, Mayberry.  The ideal small town.  Kids fishing, adults visiting on the porch on warm summer evenings, everybody friendly, even the town ne’er-do-well was a lovable character.  Aunt Bea was Andy’s fill-in mom, a tender caregiver for Opie, soft and gentle.  When I think of Aunt Bea, I think of pie.  Pies cooling on the window sill, a slice of pie after dinner, pie for company.

I’ve had pie on the brain for a few weeks now.  Pie is at the bottom of the totem pole for desserts.  With one exception, Thankgiving, pie doesn’t have a special occasion.  Cake gets all the glory…wedding cakes, birthday cakes, and cake walks.  Cookies are everywhere and brownies are always welcome at a potluck.  But the humble pie (pun intended) really only has one big shining moment during the year, the final entry to a groaning table on Thanksgiving.

Pie is comfortable in a diner.  When I was little, my grandparents would take our family to the Starlight Diner, an old converted diner on the main strip in Terre Haute, after church.    I always got the banana cream pie with meringue towering several inches.   My grandmother made the best pecan pie from scratch, starting from shelling the pecans to making her own crusts.  The leftover dough was sprinkled with butter and sugar and baked up into special little treats for us.  Hmmm, pie is definitely linked in my mind to my grandmother.

Pie takes effort, but doesn’t require a special occasion.  To me it says, “You are special to me, and I don’t need a special occasion to let you know.”   I think I may just bake a pie this week!