Holiday Memory | NevadaAppeal.com

Holiday Memory

Pat Priest King, Carson City

Mom’s First Apple Pie

It happened very long ago

when Mom and Dad first wed

and I was still a vision

dancing in my parents’ head.

They lived in a miner’s cabin

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‘tho for gold they did not seek –

Dad built it from the bottom up

on the Comstock near Sun Peak.

By modern standards ’twasn’t much

just a three-room shack

with a fireplace for heating

and an outhouse stood out back.

The view was what attracted them

to that patch of ground.

A prettier spot in all Creation?

I doubt it could be found.

Mom and Dad were happy there

tntil early one fine day –

A business trip; he had to go.

And Daddy drove away.

Mom cleaned and fussed and tidied up

’til soon the cabin shone.

Now what to do for the rest of the day

On the Comstock, all alone?

“I’ll make a pie!” my mommy thought,

“I’ve flour, salt and lard

and apples from the apple tree!

It can’t be all that hard.”

“The cookbook says to stir it up.

I’ll add a bit more flour,

a little pinch of this and that

and mix it up some more.”

The dough took on the texture

of baked adobe clay.

And when she tried to roll it out,

the stuff would not give way.

She pounded and she pleaded –

She cursed that awful thing.

With tears streaming down her face,

she gave the dough a fling.

Out the cabin door it went

and rolled down the hill

to the porch of Miss Molly’s house.

Then everything grew still.

Now Molly was a lady

of questionable repute.

She’d been the belle of the Comstock,

a fact no one would dispute.

That had been many years before.

Her youth had lost its bloom.

She now lived there all alone

in a darkened little room.

The dough had hit Molly’s house

with an awful-sounding thump

like a cannon ball from outer space —

it made Miss Molly jump.

What was that strange projectile!

Miss Molly looked around.

Now camouflaged with weeds and dirt

from rolling on the ground.

“Annie, what makes you so sad?”

when she heard my mother cry.

Tears streaked the flour on her face

as she told Molly about the pie.

“I’ll show you how to make it

and mix the dough just right

so you can surprise your husband

when he comes home tonight.”

And that is how it happened.

Mom learned her lesson well.

I fondly can remember

that heavenly fresh baked smell.

She became known for miles around

until the day she died.

For all of the fine things she could cook,

the best was apple pie.