On a sunny summer afternoon a few years ago, women representing four generations gathered around the dining room table at our family cottage in Canada.  The table was set with measuring cups, pie plates, a bag of flour and sticks of shortening. Before us, past a wall of windows, is a vast, still body of azure water we affectionately refer to as Round Lake. The place where generations have enjoyed respite for more than sixty years.

That day, sunlight shimmered over the surface of the water like a flapper moving her beaded dress, taunting me to wade in and play but we were focused on the table instead. Grandmother was sharing her secrets for achieving scrumptious pie crust and thankfully, my daughter filmed the lesson on her phone.

Grandmother’s pie baking is a summer family tradition. Flaky layers of perfection hold handpicked blueberries bubbling over the side of pie tins. Over the years, my birthday has fallen on one of those days at the cottage allowing me to choose from an extravagance of summer fruit for a pie boasting candles.


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