Back when pie was P.I.E.

One of my favorite times of the year is here: It's pie season!

The weeks surrounding Thanksgiving are when pies take center stage. Christmas time is for cookies; Thanksgiving time is for pies. The planning for them. The baking of them. The eating of them. This is when the traditional Thanksgiving favorites top dessert menus.

I'm talking pumpkin pies, of course, but apple pies, pecan pies, sweet potato pies and mincemeat pies, too. Though I admit I've never tried the last three on the list, as traditional Thanksgiving pies at my place are pumpkin, cherry and chocolate cream. (Pecans, sweet potatoes and mincemeat aren't something I have a hankering for any time of the year, in pies or otherwise.)

Then there are the fancy-pants kinds of Thanksgiving pies seen on magazine covers and Pinterest boards, the pies I hope to one day bake, hope to one day taste. Caramel apple pie. Pumpkin ice cream pie. Peanut butter pie. Strawberry-raspberry pie and cranberry pies of all sorts, too.

I love pie.

But Thanksgiving time is the only time I make pie, the only time I eat pie.

That wasn't always the case.

For a brief period of time when my daughters still lived at home, I proposed pie as our all-time — meaning All. The. Time — dessert of choice. Not for dessert though, but for breakfast. On Saturdays. Saturdays far removed from Thanksgiving.

For several months, I offered my then-teenage girls (and my husband, too) pie on Saturday mornings. A time or two I baked a pie, but more often than not it was a perfect pastry picked up from the nearest Village Inn or Perkins, those 24/7 restaurants featuring display cases filled with full-sized pies of the most luscious sorts. Our favorite was the silky smooth French Silk topped with rich, thick, real whipped cream and chunky chocolate shavings. Runner up? A cookies and cream concoction that was to die for, at least for those who'd die for more than their share of Oreo cookies.

On very ordinary Saturdays, I'd set out on the kitchen counter the perfect pie for the family to serve themselves a piece as they woke on Saturday mornings. Alongside the delectable pie and the dessert plates on which pieces were to be placed, I set a note card on which I'd written the following:

May you always have P.I.E.

Peace, Inspiration and Enthusiasm

Those three things — peace, inspiration and enthusiasm — were what I considered essential ingredients for a fullfilled life. I wanted fulfilling lives for my girls. I wanted them to always have peace, always find inspiration, always be enthusiastic about their world and their place in it.

I wanted them to always have P.I.E.

I thought pie was the perfect way to serve up regular reminders to pursue exactly those things.

My pie-serving quest took place during my oldest daughter's senior year of high school. When the opportunity arose for parents to purchase ad space in the yearbook, space in which they could publish a farewell to their graduating children, I bought space, noted a few niceties for Brianna from Mom and Dad, and ended it with "And remember to always have P.I.E."

I wanted Brianna, as well as Megan and Andrea, to place firmly in their hearts and minds my efforts at impressing upon them the importance of P.I.E.... and pie. I wanted those pie-serving Saturdays to be added to their lists of Cool Things Mom Used to Do and become cool things they would one day do with their own children. I wanted them to always remember to have P.I.E. and to always remember Mom's serving up of such slices of wisdom.

That didn't happen.

I asked one of my daughters not long ago if she remembered all the pie we used to eat. My question sparked not even the slightest glimmer of remembrance. More recently, when the proliferation of pie pins on Pinterest reminded me of our P.I.E. eating days and I considered writing a post such as this, I asked Jim if he remembered those pies I hoped had meant so much to my family. He didn't.

Sometimes our attempts at making an impression on our children, on our families, fail. My earnest efforts at making P.I.E. an important part of our Saturdays and each and every day to come were one such failure. It was good at the time. No, it was delicious at the time. But, as is the case with all things related to growing babies into adults, that time didn't last. Our prime pie season, for reasons of which I'm not quite sure, lasted a shorter period than most other seasons of childrearing.

No matter, though. The return of pie season brings with it my hope that peace, inspiration and enthusiasm abound in the hearts and lives of my daughters — even without me foisting upon them oversized servings of French Silk Pie.

And despite being unable to share oversized servings of French Silk Pie with you, my friends, I hope that during this Thanksgiving season and beyond, you, too, will remember to always have pie. Not only the pie that satisfies your stomach, but the P.I.E. that satisfies your soul, too.

Today's question:

What are your favorite kinds of pie?

Wherein Grandma rethinks the family bed

Our kids climb into bed with Jim and me each morning. Their sole goal? To get us to rise and shine, get up and give them breakfast.

Now, that may seem strange considering our three daughters are adults and don't live in our house. But it's not our human kids I'm talking about, it's our cat kids.

Early each morning, Abby and Isabel hop onto the foot of the bed and meow their way all the way up to our heads, demanding we notice them, love them, and, most importantly, get out of the freakin' bed and feed them. Abby in particular is the alarm kitty. If I ignore her pleas, she heads on over to my iPhone cord on the night stand and starts chewing on it, for she knows darn well that will have me up and at her in a split second.

Yesterday morning when "the girls" got into bed with us, I mentioned to Jim how crazy it would be if we let our dogs into the bed with us, too. Mickey and Lyla have their own bedroom, though, with a baby gate put up each night so they can't get out — which means they can't climb into our bed in the morning, like the cats do.

"Just think if they did," I said to Jim. "We'd have all our kids in bed with us."

Which led me to immediately mention that our real kids — our human kids, our daughters — never climbed into bed with us in the mornings. Never.

Why is that? I wondered out loud. It's not like the girls weren't allowed in our bedroom, weren't welcome to join us if they felt the need.

I remember one night in particular when Andrea definitely felt the need. It was during the summer between her fifth- and sixth-grade years at school, a scary transitional time that caused her to have nightmares. After several failed attempts to calm her fears in her own bed one night, she took me up on the offer to sleep in a makeshift bed on the floor beside ours.

That didn't work. Andie still couldn't sleep, still was afraid.

So I told her we'd turn on the television in our bedroom to the Cartoon Network — at a very low volume — to take her mind off scary things.

Regardless of volume level, though, the George of the Jungle Marathon running on the network that night was the stuff of nightmares, at least for Jim and me. ♪George, George, George of the Jungle, watch out for that tree!♪ kept us awake — and unhappy — for hours.

After a several episodes, we'd had enough. Andie apparently had, too, for she didn't balk too much when I led her back to her own bed. Where she did finally fall asleep.

Jim and I, though, couldn't fall asleep for we couldn't get ♪George, George, George of the Jungle♪ out of our heads, out of our dreams.

Never again, we told ourselves... and our girls. To this day, mentions of George of the Jungle elicit groans and grins from Jim, Andrea and myself as we recall the nightmarish marathon.

Back in those childrearing years, I was thankful the girls rarely asked to sleep in our bed and that they never woke us in the mornings by crawling under the covers with us. But now it saddens me.

It saddens me because as a grandma, I realize what Jim and I missed. The mornings when I'm visiting my grandsons and they crawl into bed with me — which is every morning when I'm at their house... and usually before the sun even considers creeping up over the horizon — are some of the sweetest moments shared with my beloved boys.

Which is one of the more important things Jim and I failed to learn when our girls were little.

There's no going back, though, no way to remedy that error we made with our children. But we can, as grandparents, make the most of the moments when our grandchildren crawl into bed with us.

I will do exactly that with open arms next week, when I'll be sleeping one room away from Bubby and Mac.

Next week I'll have four mornings to relish the slow creaking open of Gramma's bedroom door as the boys together peek in at me, then the pitter-patter of little feet scampering over to my bed while I pretend I'm asleep. Then I'll lift the covers, make room for Bubby on one side, Mac on the other. We'll snuggle for just a bit, and once they've done all the snuggling their wiggly little boy bodies can handle, we'll discuss our dreams from the night, recite our plans for the day.

I didn't get it with my girls, but I now realize with my boys that such times truly are the best part of waking up when there are children in the house.

As a parent, the family bed was never my thing, for I didn't want to be continually awakened by little kids.

As a grandparent, I can't imagine any better wake-up call.

Today's question:

Did your kids climb into bed with you in the mornings? Do your grandkids?

How to write a keepsake letter to a grandchild

Considering the proliferation of techy ways grandparents can now keep in touch with grandkids, it takes — for many of us — a fair amount of intention and forethought to actually create a handwritten letter for those little ones we love so much.

It takes motivation, too, and motivations are a plenty this time of year, considering the upcoming season of special occasions. Spring and summer are filled with graduations — from kindergarten through college — as well as pending departures to college, weddings, relocations and more.

Plus, regardless of season, there are always newborn grandbabies we want to commemorate with a letter for the baby book. There also are siblings of those newborns, to whom we want to express our love as they lose their only-child status and gain big brother or big sister status, and various special accomplishments and achievements for which we want to express our pride and delight.

The reasons for writing to a grandchild are many, yet it's apparent by the high number of "How to write a letter to a grandchild" search queries that lead folks to Grandma's Briefs that many grandmothers are anxious about putting pen to paper and letting loose with their sentiments. In light of those searches, today I offer some tips to help grandmothers (and others) do exactly that.

• Choose paper that's representative of you and of fairly heavy stock. Perhaps that means a flowery stationery, maybe monogram letterhead, possibly just an ivory sheet of paper. Be sure to have a pen that glides comfortably for you, as well. (Fluorescent pink ink optional!)

• One note before beginning: If you prefer using a word-processing application when writing your thoughts, first compose your letter in the application, then print for copying by hand onto the paper you intend for the special letter.

• Consider what you most want to convey. Are you writing to welcome the babe to your world? Congratulate the child on an accomplishment? Comfort him or her during a rough time? You don't need to know exactly what you're going to say at the outset, only the reason you're reaching out and a general idea of what you wish to express.

• Start the letter with the date at the top. As the letter will likely be cherished for years to come, it's important to have a date for the child to reference later when she pulls it from a box of keepsakes or finds it pressed between the pages of her baby book.

• Choose a salutation that is you. No need to be stilted and formal. If Hey, Babycakes! is more your style than Dear Robert, stick with it. And stick with your regular handwriting, too, just write neatly. (You can opt for printing it rather than cursive, if you expect the child will read it himself.)

• Begin with a loving statement on the child's well being, something along the lines of I hope you're having a great day. Or, if the child has been ill or dealing with a challenge, pose a question about the situation, such as How are things coming along with _____? Or for a new grandchild, try a simple Welcome to our family!

• Now it's time for the meat of the letter. Start off by flat-out stating why you're writing the letter: I'm writing today to tell you how proud I am of you. Or, I'm sending you this letter so you always have my words to look back on as you begin this new adventure. Maybe, I wanted to put down on paper some stories of your family, so you know the history of those who love you. You know why you want to write the letter, so that is where you start.

• From there, expand on the why. Write from the heart, from a place of love and caring for the grandchild. Don't edit yourself too much, and don't worry about saying things right and perfect and grammatically correct. Simply be yourself, and be conversational, as if you're talking in person to the grandchild. Sometimes we write better than we talk, and if that's the case, try imagining a conversation you might have with the child if you spoke the way you wish you could... then put that down on the paper.

• There's no ideal letter length, so go short, go long, go whatever length allows you to say what you wanted to say. Once you've done that, wrap it up with a loving statement or two. No need to apologize for ending, no need to say, "Well, I better go!" Simply mention how thankful you are for the opportunity to let your grandchild know what's in your heart and how much you love and care about him or her.

• Close with another loving statement: I love you. I'm thinking of you. You're in Grandma's thoughts. I'm praying for you. Again, just be you. Now might even be a great time to end with a phrase you want to be a special one between you and your grandchild. Hasta la vista, Baby! may not be the sentiment to share, but then again, if it's you, go for it.

• Now sign — as your grandchild knows you. Grandchildren will forever hold dear Grandma's signature, so make it clear but make it you.

Congratulations! You did it! You completed a handwritten letter to your grandchild.

Now deliver it! And don't forget that regardless of your grandchild's age, an age-appropriate sticker on the envelope is sure to bring a smile — even if the recipient is a soon-to-be college graduate!

Today's question:

When did you last handwrite a letter, to a child or otherwise?

Mother may I?: Different standards for Grandma

My daughter has a double standard. I didn’t raise her to be that way, but I can no longer deny it.

You see, what my daughter — whom I love deeply and dearly despite this flaw — does with her children, my grandchildren, and what she expects and allows me to do with them are two very different things. Sometimes, in fact, they contradict one another quite starkly.

To wit:

When I am in charge of caring for my grandsons, meaning Mom and Dad have hit the road and enlisted me to babysit, I’m given rules to follow, rules related to eating, sleeping, personal hygiene and safety.

One food-related rule is that the boys get only their three meals a day plus one morning snack and one afternoon snack. I’m not to give them any more, any less. When my daughter’s in charge, though, those kids snack off and on throughout the day. At times not on the written schedule I've been asked to adhere to. Then my grandsons — not so surprisingly, I must add, with a "nyah, nyah" attached — balk at their plates of healthy foods come mealtime.

While we're on the subject of snacks, I must say that my ever-so-health-conscious daughter swears my grandsons are not to have too much sugar. They eat sugar-free cereals, natural peanut butter, corn syrup-free fruit snacks and a variety of other not-so-sweet sorts of things.

But — and you knew there had to be one, right? — the boys are allowed handfuls of M&Ms and other candies when Mom or Dad are eating a few themselves. Handfuls, I tell you. Well, not really handfuls, as they actually get them in little snack bowls (for M&Ms really do melt in your hand, not just in your mouth, at least when it comes to the hands of little boys).

Bedtime features a similar bending of the rules. I’ve been told the boys must be bathed, rocked, read a story, bedtime prayer said, then huggled and snuggled before being tucked in. On a specific schedule and in that order. Which I do happily. (Nearly) every single time. Does my daughter follow that schedule? Um, not usually.

Use of media is another sore spot for me, another place the double standard can’t be denied. This one I’ve actually called my daughter out on — which I don’t normally do. But I just had to say something when nearly a year ago, I allowed my four-year-old grandson to watch a Batman cartoon, and when my daughter found out (thanks, Bubby!), she chastised me with, “Mom, he’s not supposed to watch that. It has mean men who shoot guns.”

I couldn’t hold my tongue. Especially considering that my letting him watch cartoon men who shoot guns, while surely not a great idea, can’t be much worse than his parents letting that same grandson, at that same age, listen to LMFAO’s unsavory (but, yes, rather humorous) ditty “I’m Sexy and I Know It” so many times that he knew most of the words. Worse yet, he considered it his very favorite song at the time.

In the grand scheme of the grandparenting gig, the contradictory rules for Mom versus Grandma aren’t that big of a deal. Really. They’re not harmful to my grandsons. My daughter is an awesome mother with good intentions. She keeps my grandsons safe, sound, and never doubting they are loved and cherished. Plus, as the parent, it's her prerogative, one not afforded the grandparent.

Still, it is a tad disconcerting to see my daughter so full of baloney (and not just because she wouldn't dare be caught dead eating ever-so-very-unhealthy baloney).

Yet, despite the double standard, I do my best to stick to her rules.

Even if they’re silly.

Even if they’re not fair (I say in my whiniest of whiny voices).

I stick to them because they’re my daughter’s rules, and that’s what grandmas must do.

Because grandmas no longer set the rules.

Which is the one rule grandmas would be most wise to remember.

Today's question:

How does the mom-rules/grandma-rules dynamic play out in your family?

Reheated comfort food

As is the case with many flu- and bug-stricken folks around the country, the last few weeks have been a battle for me as I struggle with super bugs of dizzying sorts that I just can't seem to lick.

Yesterday, though, I felt a bit better than I have been. At least enough to actually cook dinner, compared to the frozen foods and fast foods Jim and I have been feasting on for far too many meals.

Considering I was still feeling fairly cruddy, it should be no surprise that I chose to make one of my favorite comfort foods: biscuits and gravy.

While I stirred the gravy, sausage bits swirling around the spoon as I waited for the milky goodness to get thick and creamy, I considered how much I love biscuits and gravy, how much comfort it provides when I feel not quite myself, physically or otherwise.

Yet I wouldn't give biscuits and gravy top billing on my list of favorite comfort foods, for that belongs to another dish.

I wrote about that particular dish — my very most favorite of all comfort foods — for Victoria magazine nearly 15 years ago. (Well, it was actually for the "Friends of Victoria" reader newsletter, which is neither here nor there, though, as I was paid just the same.)

Because my brain is still rather foggy and creative juices haven't been flowing well of late, I decided that today I'd simply share with you that little story of my favorite comfort food, word for word as published by Victoria magazine.

It goes like this:

A Taste of the Past

Simple pleasures are the best

I remember days from my childhood walking home from school for lunch through the frozen Minnesota landscape. Snow covered the ground and a thin crust of ice formed across the top. As I balanced each step, I tried to guess how long I could stay atop the snow before the crunchy crust gave way.

After trudging through the cold, I was greeted by an unexpected welcome. Inside our old farmhouse, bowls of warm macaroni and tomato sauce awaited my brothers, sisters, and me. Perfectly cooked, perfectly plain elbow macaroni bathed in brilliant red tomato sauce straight from the can, with just a sprinkling of salt.

What Mom prepared for us those winter days was love pure and simple, no extras added. In my memory, those simple lunches must have been right around Christmas, because I remember the contrast of the red sauce and the white of winter making a lasting impression.

Ever since then, I've turned to macaroni and tomato sauce whenever I'm in need of comfort. My high-school boyfriend and I used to enjoy it as an after-school snack, although his mother tried to convince me to add a little butter to my simple recipe. The butter makes it creamier and better, she explained, but to me, it no longer tasted like Mom's.

When I was pregnant with my first daughter, there were times I felt scared about my future role as a mother. Many days were comforted by the simple taste of home and those early memories of Mom boiling up a pot of elbow macaroni.

Now that I have three daughters and a slightly more sophisticated approach to cooking than I did in my first few years of marriage, I rarely make macaroni with tomato sauce. Our tastebuds prefer a bit of basil, a hit of garlic, or a sprinking of cheese — and elbow macaroni is rarely the pasta of choice these days.

But there are days when the kids are in school and I'm home from work that my husband comes home for lunch. If either of us feels under the weather, we satisfy our craving for comfort by cooking something simple. The first thing we reach for is the macaroni and tomato sauce — always kept on hand for just such emergencies. The soothing smell seems to curb some of life's worries and I find great satisfaction in knowing that my husband's enthusiasm for my lunch of choice is as strong as mine.

It is then I am completely reassured that I've made the right choices — in meals and in men.

— Lisa Carpenter, December 1998

Today's question:

What's at the top of your list of comfort foods?