Books, Memory and Pie
In early November, Liquid Amber (American Sweetgum) leaves provided a display of glorious colors around Nevada City, rivaling the maple trees that were exceptional this year. When high winds and rain arrived last week, their leaves fell along with spikey pods filled with tiny black seeds. Now deep into November, temperatures have dropped and Thanksgiving is on the horizon. My cat Peekay’s outdoor Catio on the deck is covered with a heavy tarp, and the two of us are inside weathering the wind and rain. Peekay sleeps hours on cozy blankets atop assorted chairs around the house; and warmed by the fire and a wool lap blanket, I read from the array of books lined up on a shelf along the back of the couch.
In late October, The Black Wolf—mystery writer Louise Penny’s 20th novel in her Inspector Gamache series—arrived, and I dove right in. Over the past two decades, her cast of characters has become family for both the author and her devoted readers. At the heart of her stories is the village of Three Pines, located in Québec near the Vermont border but impossible to find on a map. Last year’s novel The Grey Wolf is now circulating around our neighborhood. When everyone has read them both, we’ll gather by a warm fire for wine, hors d’oeuvres, and pastries to discuss their heart pounding twists and turns, just as if we were at Olivier’s Bistro in Three Pines where Penny’s characters go to find comfort and answers to the latest mystery to arrive in their village.
I’m also reading Isabel Allende’s memoir My Invented Country: A Nostalgic Journey Through Chile. For this brilliant writer, there is nothing more powerful and lasting than memories of family and place from her childhood and youth. Exiled from her mother country following a military coup in 1973, she was faced with putting down new roots in a new country. In My Invented Country, Allende draws from memories deeply rooted in her past and in her life as an exile and immigrant. Those carefully stored memories have continued to travel with her, inhabiting her many novels across her life as a writer.
I’m now turning my thoughts to the vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner our daughter Heidi and her wife Sugie are hosting next week. In place of turkey, the focus of the meal is a delicious array of side dishes. They slice and roast a Kabouca squash (also known as Japanese squash) with a nutty sesame ginger sauce or maple syrup. Guests bring favorites like Mac and Cheese, homemade breads, cornbread stuffing, cranberry relish, green beans, buttery garlic mashed potatoes, and assorted pies. Sugie’s family always served apple pie. In my family, pecan and pumpkin pies were the only desserts to ever grace our Thanksgiving table. So next week, I plan to make both and save a taste of each pie for Kit when I visit him the next day at the Lodge. Because it’s impossible to just try one.
My mother Alice taught my sisters and me how to make pecan and pumpkin pies decades ago. On visits to Boomerang Creek, our grandchildren Nico, Inés and Catalina all learned to master the art of crimping pie crust, and Nico made his first pumpkin pie in our kitchen. Like my mother, I follow the classic pumpkin pie recipe found on cans of Libby’s puréed pumpkin and the pecan pie recipe is always provided on bottles of Karo syrup.
Thanksgiving is filled with food shared with family and friends. And like the novels and stories of writers like Louise Penny and Isabel Allende, such gatherings are rooted in memories that travel through life with us. Memories of comfort food in which the common ingredient is love.