I Remember...

I remember when Mom made pies
She would do it right before our eyes.
Measuring,
Lard in-cutting,
Kneading.

She would lay out her pastry mat so neat,
And flour it to make her pies complete.
She would pat it,
Roll it,
Measure it,
Until the pastry was the right thickness
To make the crust – the filling’s nest.

As I watched, in she would fill it; into the pan it would go.
She’d cut off the excess and we would get our own to sugar just so.
As she would make the filling, Apple, lemon, or maybe pumpkin,
We would ready our pastry for the oven.

Oh, the tantalizing aroma from those pies!
Made before our eyes!
Made so lovingly by our mother’s hand;
To me the best pies throughout the land!

The aromas would go wafting through the house from bottom to top.
Until the saliva won’t stop.
It went sneaking,
People seeking,
Around corner peeking,
Until we all wanted a piece of Mom’s pie.
A scent that would take us up so high.