My First Green Tomato Pie

When I first came to Texas, I did very little baking. What with all the negative press about carbs, baking had become almost politically incorrect.

But one day, when we were shopping, Gene saw some green tomatoes.

:How I'd love a green tomato pie," He said. Ugh, I thought. No way.

But I saw the yearning in his eyes, and I softened: "let's get some. I'll make the pie."

"How many," he asked. "About five or six?"

"At least eight," I said, not knowing what I was talking about. But it sounded good, like eight apples for a pie. And we bought a pie crust.

At home, I got out his mother's recipe and started in. Cut the tomatoes into halves, sliced them thin, then cut them in half again. Mixed the sugar, spices, lemon juice and pooured it over the tomatoes. I took a bite. Not bad, tasted like a tart apple.

Baked it and the smells filled the house.

It did taste like a sour apple pie. In fact, it was delicious, and I made another the next week. This time making my own pie crust, the one with so much shortening it cannot get tough no matter how much you handle it.

A memory of the joy of baking -- the dough on your fingers, tasting the ingredients, the raw mix, never worrying about raw eggs or raw flour. Remembering how few chocolate chip cookies the recipe made because of all the nibbling of the dough. The Christmas cookies, the frosting on the cakes I made for my daughter's birthdays -- so many happy memories are evoked by cooking one pie.