The Most Important Pie

This is a photo of the peach pie I made for my dad last year, just before it went into the oven. I didn't realize at the time that it would be his final pie on the planet.

Dad would have been 86 this weekend, and my tradition for the last decade has been to bake his favorite pie for his birthday. Luckily, peaches are at their peak this time of year – but when I started this pie-making odyssey, you couldn’t say the same for the pie-maker!

The first few years, my neighbor Lezlee had to coach me on the fine points of making pie crust. I finally got the hang of it, but I’ll never be able to flute the edges as perfectly as Lezlee. And store-bought peaches were never good enough; instead, I’d get them from farm stands on my way back to Idaho from Seattle.

One year, I even brought them from West Texas!

Brag alert: Last year’s pie was out of this world. So it was unusual that Dad passed it up when his three kids joined him for what was supposed to be a festive birthday lunch. We’d had pizza and he barely ate any of that, either. He seemed unnaturally tired, and we noticed his skin had taken on a yellowish tinge.

Still, he was thrilled about seeing all of us, and about the pie. “It looks delicious!” he smiled. “Everybody have some! But put the rest in the fridge, and I’ll eat it later.”

No pie? This was serious. The next day, I cajoled him into coming to the hospital with me. That’s where his cancer was diagnosed and we were told he had another month or two to live.

He ended up eating most of the pie, and for that I am thankful. The following weeks were a blur of medical and hospice details, keeping Dad comfortable and pain-free.

My father could be the most stubborn, ornery person you ever met. He often seemed to delight in trying my patience. But he was also my biggest fan – and my sister’s and brother’s as well.

In his memory, I’ll make a peach pie this weekend and most likely eat the whole damn thing.