My Memaw’s Famous Fried Pies
A "Be the Light" story of community care, joy, and devotion
This week, I’m excited to continue sharing my Be the Light series with you all. For those of you who haven’t seen the first piece yet, The Surprising Gifts of a Delayed Flight: A “Be the Light” story about finding grace in unexpected moments, this offering is a way to remind myself and others of a beautiful and important truth:
That it is possible to plant a seed of hope and joy, even when it seems the world is falling apart.
It’s easy to forget or dismiss the positive impact that one smile, one conversation, one compassionate connection can have. My desire is for each of us to feel inspired to share our own special beam of light, even if it takes a bit of courage to step out of our comfort zone.
Daddy used to say that when his mother was young, she was a lady wrestler.
Maybe he was right. One night, while she was walking the few blocks home from her Assembly of God church, a man leaped out from behind a bush and tried to grab her purse. Without hesitation, she snatched the bottle of alcohol he was carrying and broke it over his head. As he lay there stunned on the sidewalk, she swiftly bent down and prayed over him. Then, matter-of-factly tucking her purse under her arm, she walked home, reeking of gin.
My Memaw was famous for her fried pies, and I was seven years old when she first let me help her cook up a batch.
We always started at the farmer’s market early enough so it was still cool, when the sky was a soft pink. Every week, we made our way through the bustling morning crowd to her favorite stalls. I distinctly remember the smell of ripe tomatoes in the air, the sound of merchants shouting into the crowd, and my Memaw haggling with the farmers over the price of a bushel basket of hard, green apples.
She was careful about every penny that left her blue plastic coin pouch—the kind that looks like a mouth opening when you squeeze the ends. She made sure that her grandchildren were always busy – stringing beans, shelling peas, or turning the hand-crank on the wooden ice cream freezer. She often reminded us, “Idle hands are tools in the devil’s workshop.”
We’d sit on the massive back porch of her two-story whitewashed house, overlooking the spreading fig tree, and peel, core, slice & chop each apple into a heavy crockery bowl. Tan with a dark blue stripe around the lip, that bowl was so big that I couldn’t fit my arms around it.
When the bowl was filled to the brim with diced fruit (minus the ones I’d sneak into my mouth), Memaw would lift me up to sit on a tall wooden stool beside the stove. My job was to watch her stir the vat of apples, and to sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar as they simmered. I felt like I was taking a cinnamon steam bath in that kitchen, breathing in those sweet aromas with delight and wonder.
My job was a very important one, because if the apples scorched on the bottom of the pot, we wouldn’t have anything to put in the pies. Suffice to say, I took my responsibility very seriously – and watched that stove like a little wide-eyed and curious hawk.
Once the apples were soft, fragrant, and golden-brown, Memaw would slide the heavy pot off the cast iron burner. She’d stand at the long counter, with me at her elbow. I’d watch carefully as she rolled out the pie dough she had made earlier that morning. Instead of a rolling pin, she always used a tall bottle turned on its side (I’d seen her pour whiskey over dish towels and wrap her fruit cakes in them, so I knew where that bottle had come from!).
Every week she would let me roll out a small piece of the dough, cut out a few tiny cookies, and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar. I would always save these to serve to my dolls at our tea party later in the afternoon.
She would carefully spoon the warm apples onto each oval of dough and press a fork around the edges so none of the hot filling could escape. Then a loud “shh-chuh” – as she slipped each pie into a wire basket and plunged it into the deep fat fryer to bubble and bounce till the crust was crispy.
Each warm pie was as big as Memaw’s hand, and as soon as it had cooled, she slid it into its own little waxed paper bag. My job was to carefully fold the top edge of the bag and staple it closed.
“That’s right,” she would say, with gentle encouragement, as I put the bags in a row on the countertop.
We’d pack the fried pies into a big brown pasteboard box, being careful to protect the crusts from breaking off. She would carry the box while I carried the umbrella to keep the sun off my head, and together we’d walk the few blocks from her house to the city bus that would take us downtown to the county courthouse.
I remember struggling to open the heavy doors of the big tan granite building, and walking into the cool marble hallway – the sharp tang of mimeograph ink tickling the inside of my nose. We were always greeted by the sight of people walking toward us, smiling and waving.
“Ruby! Ruby Lee Sumner! Come over here with those pies!” they would call out enthusiastically.
Sometimes they pulled out whole dollar bills and took ten pies – one for each person in their office. Memaw would always put the dimes into her little blue money pouch, but I think I saw her tuck the bills into her bra.
The courthouse guard, Mr. Moses wore a blue uniform with gold buttons that matched his gold front tooth. She always saved one fried pie for him, but never made him pay.
I felt grown up, and important. These people were so excited to see my Memaw – and I belonged to her.
Throughout her long life, she was the matriarch of our family and the pillar of her community. Whenever someone was sick or hurting, she could be counted on to deliver a hot meal wrapped in a checkered cloth, always with a handwritten Bible verse. With neighbors who were struggling, she generously shared food from her garden. The song that she taught me as a child, “This Little Light of Mine,” is one I’ve carried with me and shared with my own grandchildren. She never hid her light under a bushel, but always let it shine.
So, maybe she was a lady wrestler – like Daddy said.
But she was always Memaw to me.
To close, I’d like to share a gorgeous rendition of This Little Light of Mine sung by my dear friend Paige (The Deepness). Her soulful voice carries the heart of this memory.
In service of truth and love,
Lee
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Lee Sumner Irwin is a teacher, visionary, author, artist, intuitive guide, and grandmother who has spent the last few decades discovering a multitude of ways to uplift, inspire, and connect with women who feel called to her work. Over the years she has led retreats worldwide, coached women as they birthed their unique gifts and creative energy, and facilitated healing journeys. Her award-winning first book is Radiant Wise Woman: Breaking Free from the Myths of Menopause and Aging. She currently resides in Alabama with her husband where she enjoys dancing, exploring the wonders of nature, building community, nurturing her family, and finding ever-new ways to express her creativity.
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Wonderful! Thank you, Lee!