Sharing life's challenges — and pies — is how we get through the hard spots.
Remember this song?
“Make new friends
“But keep the old.
“One is silver
“And the other’s gold.”
I was thinking, the other day, about learning this song when I was a kid at a summer day camp. Right after first grade, maybe, or second. It was at City Park in Fort Collins and likely only lasted two or three hours for maybe a week or two. My mom didn’t really subscribe to the theory of keeping her kids booked through the summer months. Instead, her parenting philosophy was let the kids watch one TV show a day (typically “Big Valley”) and then send them outside to play. The longer we were out in the sun or bothering someone else’s mother, the better. But she probably thought I would enjoy the arts and crafts and would benefit from a chance to make new friends.
I wasn’t really a kid who had lots of friends. I got along well with most people and usually there were one or two little girls in the neighborhood who were about my age. But I was a kid who could entertain myself, so I did — a lot. My mother, a woman who stayed close her whole life to a group of girls she met in grade school, also understood the value of friendships. So she signed me up for camp.
I don’t have a clear memory of the kids at the camp or the activities, but I do remember learning that song and thinking it was so profound — who, after all, was silver and who was gold? And was gold better than silver? After all, all the precious jewelry that I’d seen in my short life, like my mother’s wedding ring, was gold. Or was silver less valuable since it was so plentiful in mountain tourist shops?
I remember talking to my mom about it, and she said: Different but equally precious.
* * *
My dad has been sick, off and on, for the past six months, terribly dangerously ill. He’s almost 93, so things that younger men could shrug off or weather with only minimal discomfort have led to multiple-day hospital stays, stints in rehab centers, strange and alarming reactions to medications, and pureed food. Although all the doctors he’s seen on this journey have been smart and curious and determined; and the nurses and CNAs, even the kids who worked in the dining room of the rehab centers have seemed knowledgeable and compassionate, it’s the friends, the familiar faces, the silver and gold, that have made this unrelenting pain bearable.
I believe in the comfort of long-term connections.
In February, on Super Bowl Sunday after finishing our traditional meal of chili and cinnamon rolls (the kind that come in a can), my dad lost his balance while picking something up from the table and fell. He managed to get himself up from the floor and into his “comfy” chair in the living room and later into bed. But over the course of the next two days, he complained about more and more pain in his back, the kind that you can’t knock down with Tylenol, and he found it more difficult to move without effort. On Tuesday night, while I was changing the sheets on his bed, he sat down in the wooden rocking chair that has rocked beside his bedside for 60-some years, since he brought it home for my mother when she was pregnant with their first child. And he couldn’t get up.
After trying — and failing — to get him up myself, and being told by my dad — in no uncertain terms — not to call the paramedics, I asked my friend Mark if he could come help. Even though it was late and he had just come in from a long day and he lives clear across town, he came without hesitation.
I’ve known Mark and his wife, Tracy, since forever. I dissected frogs with Mark in some long-ago high school physiology class, and then roomed with Tracy for two years in college. Although we don’t see each other as often as we used to or as often as we’d like to, they are the kinds of friends you cherish because they know you. And you them. I know their families, their parents and siblings, their adorable sons. I’ve been in their homes and their cars and their hospital rooms. I know their history; I’ve been part of it.
So when I called, he came, as I knew he would, as I would for him if he called asking for my help.
My dad lighted up when he saw Mark. He too has known Mark for forever. “Come on, Mark,” he said, putting his frail old hand in Mark’s strong, gentle one, “help me up.”
And he did.
The next morning, my dad couldn’t get out of bed and I had to call the paramedics. They took him to the ER. It turned out he had a compression fracture of his T11 vertebrae and spent the next five days in the hospital followed by 17 days in rehab. But still, that moment when a dear friend, an old friend, offered my dad a helping hand was indeed gold.
Yeah, definitely gold.
About a month later, on Mother’s Day, when my dad was feeling better we decided to take some flowers to my mother’s grave, grab a to-go cup of coffee and take a leisurely drive through the springtime countryside. The car has often been called my father’s happy place, so when my sister and I helped my dad into my yellow VW Beetle, his pleasure was palpable. We stopped at the grocery store about a mile and half from our house for flowers, but when I got back into the car, the clutch stuck to the floor. Although I was able to back out of the parking spot, I was unable to shift into a driveable gear and some random guys had to push it out of the road.
Everyone knows what it feels like to be stranded. Even if you know it’s ultimately just a temporary (and super expensive) inconvenience, it’s a panicky feeling. Now add to that story, a frail, just-out-of-rehab old dad who, because he knew a trip to the cemetery and the coffee shop wouldn’t require getting out of the car, had left his walker at home. That creates an overwhelming feeling of panic and failure.
We spent some amount of time trying to figure out if the grocery store sold walkers (it did not) and whether my dad could get into a taxi (probably not) and whether AAA would take his insurance if he couldn’t speak to them (or more apt, hear them) on my woefully undercharged phone (it did).
Then I called my friend, Pat.
You wouldn’t exactly call her a “new” friend because we’ve known each other for something like 20 years, but even now, it kind of feels that way. We worked together for many years and at some point became friends over late-night deadlines. We told each other stories about our families and our pets and our Plan Bs, and we ate too many chips and too much salsa during too many, or not enough, dinners in the middle of a workday.
Eventually she met my dad, and they developed an easy, good-natured rapport.
That day, she answered my distress call by dropping everything and driving clear across town to rescue us. She helped us get my dad into her SVU, drove him and my sister back to our house while I waited in the parking lot for the truck AAA sent out, and then got him out of the vehicle, into a wheelchair and then, with some difficulty I’m told (although no one ever gave me details), into the house. She then came back and waited with me for the tow truck.
That might seem small as far as grand friendship gestures go, but that day it was huge. As is every day that she is interested in my drama, every day that she is generous with new recipes and ideas for adventures and with advice and commiseration, and every day that she is kind to my father.
Yep, her too, definitely gold.
* * *
Not long ago, my dad spent a couple of weeks in a rehab center that doubled as a nursing home. It was clear from the people we saw in the hallways and dining room, that some of them, like my dad, were just passing through on their way to recovery, and some were there to stay.
There was a common area right inside the front door, a lobby or a living room maybe, with a great big bird cage for four teeny tiny birds and some somewhat comfy chairs. Each day a group of residents (or nonresidents, I was never quite sure) parked their walkers or their wheelchairs along the wall to reconnect after a long night alone — or they sat guard from behind impenetrable stares. Sometimes in the first few days that he was there, my dad ventured into that circle, sit-walking his institutional wheelchair up to possible conversations.
One day, when I went to visit him in the afternoon, his room was empty. I figured he was working with the physical or occupational therapist — that after all is why he was doing time at that facility; so I went in search of him in the little, austere “gym.” He wasn’t in there. Nor was he in the dining room where I thought maybe, just maybe, he had wandered in search of a cup of coffee or something sweet to eat.
In the lobby/living room/common area, a nurse told me that my dad was feeling better that day and had spent a lot of the afternoon tooling around the halls in his wheelchair, moving his legs and exercising his social prowess. She said, I’m so glad to see that.
But a little old lady sitting nearby shook her head and, in a low conspiratorial voice, said: “He’s been up and down that hall. He’s going into people’s rooms.”
I wasn’t sure if she was just imparting information or if she was tattling on him.
When she repeated the charge — “He’s going into rooms” — I tried to appease her: “I guess he’s just making new friends,” I said.
Everyone understands the need for friends, even when you’re old and in a new setting, even that old lady — although she did turn away from me without reply and rolled away down the same hallway where I found my father a few moments later making new friends, maybe neither silver nor gold, maybe more like silver-plated.
THE PIE
PEACH-BOURBON FRIENDSHIP PIE
Keeping with the theme, I made these Peach-Bourbon Friendship Pies. I called them friendship pies, instead of the traditional hand pies, because they are little, portable pies that are easy to share with friends, because the fruit came from the tree of a long-time friend and because I brought them to a potluck dinner at the home of a dear friend.
Mary was one of the first people I met when I left home for college. We worked in the same office, the office of the dean for the College of Agriculture, she as a full-time employee and me as a work-study “runner.” We were on different paths so we didn’t see each other outside of work, but over the years, we have crossed paths on occasion and then connected on Facebook several years ago. On Facebook, she is interesting and creative, passionate about politics, and complimentary about my burgeoning pie baking hobby. (Who wouldn't like that?)
This summer and fall, the trees in our town were heavy with fruit. I’ve never seen so many apples — weighing down branches, littering sidewalks and street gutters, and overwhelming kitchens. I am not a gardener, but friends kept me stocked with apples and Mary offered up peaches.
You can use either fresh or frozen peaches in this recipe. Because Mary did all the hard work — peeling, slicing and freezing — I used frozen. Fresh would also be good, but of course, you would need to peel and slice the peaches before they could be used in the pie. The bourbon is a nice addition to a peach pie, bringing a deep, rich kind-of-caramel flavor and cutting the sweetness of the peaches just enough.
The Recipe
2 cups diced peaches, fresh or frozen
5 tablespoons granulated sugar
1 tablespoon cornstarch
2 to 3 tablespoons bourbon
1 large egg
Pinch of salt
Coarse sugar or cinnamon-sugar blend for sprinkling
Chilled crust (see below)
Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
On a lightly floured surface, roll out the dough to 1/8 to ¼-inch thick. Using a 3-inch cookie cutter, cut out 16 to 20 circles. Transfer to a rimmed baking sheet and chill while you make the filling.
For the filing: In a small saucepan, combine the peaches, sugar and cornstarch. Bring to a boil over medium heat, mashing the peaches lightly with a fork. Cook until the mixture has thickened, 6 to 8 minutes. Stir in the bourbon to taste. Let cool completely, about 30 minutes.
In a small bowl, combine egg and salt.
On a rimmed baking sheet (line with parchment if available), lay out circles of dough (6 to 8 should fit on the baking sheet, depending on the size of the circles and the size of the baking sheet). Place 1-2 tablespoons of the filling in the center of each circle. Brush around the edge of the pastry with the egg mixture. Top with another dough disk, pressing the edges with a fork to seal. If you want a shiny crust, brush the top of the pies with the egg mixture. With a paring knife, make slits in the top of each pie to vent steam. Sprinkle with coarse sugar or cinnamon-sugar blend.
Bake in preheated oven until golden brown, 25 to 30 minutes. Transfer the pies to a wire rack to cool. Pies are good served warm or cold.
FRIENDSHIP PIE CRUST
2½ cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons salt
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
¾ cup (1½ sticks) cold unsalted butter, cut into 1-inch pieces
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vegetable shortening
¼ cup (4 tablespoons) cold vodka
6 tablespoons cold water, plus extra as needed
In a large bowl, mix together the flour, salt and sugar until thoroughly combined. Add the butter and shortening and cut together with a pastry cutter until the mixture forms small pea-sized crumbs.
Pour the vodka over the mixture, a tablespoon at a time, using a rubber spatula. Add the water and press the dough together to form two large balls. If the dough seems dry or does not hold together, add extra water a tablespoon at a time until all the ingredients come together. (Be careful not to work the dough too much to prevent the crust from becoming tough.)
Press each ball into a 1-inch disk, wrap each in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour — or up to two days — before rolling out.
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