Shoe Paste Pie

As some of you may know I was at my mom’s old apartment yesterday while her things were being cleared out. (We still have the house to do but that’s another thing entirely). Doug has been really great to me lately. He didn’t go with me to the apartment, instead staying home and cleaning- I mean really cleaning- mopping the kitchen floor, doing 5 loads of laundry, etc. All this without me even asking. (He can be a really great guy when he wants to be). I wasn’t at my best when I got home. I was teary eyed and down in the dumps. Doug knew that coming home to a freshly cleaned house would improve my mood. And it did- as much as it could anyway.

I really didn’t bring much home from her apartment yesterday. One thing of hers that she had given me awhile back when she moved from her house was her old recipe box. I sat there for an hour or so last night going through the recipes. Memories of my childhood came flooding back to me as I read the handwritten recipe cards, some that she had written, some my dad. I remember debates that were held a few days before the holidays each year- which pies to make, which salads.

My mom used to make a chocolate icebox pie that I just loved. When I became an adult I discovered that it’s actually a French Silk Pie. I love that pie. (Just give me a fork and get out of my way). My mom made it because I loved it so. My dad called it “Shoe Paste Pie”. He liked Dreamy High Pumpkin Pie instead. I found her recipe for the shoe paste pie last night. I’m making it for Thanksgiving this year. I’m going to have to have Evelyn make the crust. I can’t make a tender pie crust to save my life. (You could use my pie crust to re-sole shoes). Both my mom and my grandmother could make perfect crusts without even measuring the ingredients. I guess the pie crust gene just didn’t get into me somehow.

You can always tell which recipes were the family favorites by how scuzzy the index cards themselves look.  I haven’t written on an index card since forever. Now I just print a recipe from the computer when I want it and toss it when I’m done. For both Thanksgiving and Christmas my dad wanted his cranberry salad that had a lot of different things in it.  My job every holiday was to pit thered grapes and cut up the celery and nuts. I remember always whining to my dad about having to do it. I just wish I had one of them to whine to now. I think I’ll make the cranberry salad too.

I even remember the year that my folks had an argument. For a reason I can no longer remember my dad was delayed coming to the table. My mom fixed his plate, took it to the kitchen then hurled it across the room smashing it into the front of the dishwasher. (Since we had a dishwasher at the time, I’m guessing this was mid-late 60′s). I remember having to clean up that cranberry salad was a bitch. (Of course back then I couldn’t imagine why anyone would be stressed out around the holidays). I was young and had so much left to learn about life.