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During my senior year of high school, my dad thought we needed some more father-daughter bonding time. When he was little, growing up in Mark Twain’s Missouri, he spent a lot of time at his grandma’s house baking. He’d help his grandma make her world famous chocolate-chip cookies, and sometimes, they’d even make a pie. So spring of my senior year, he dusted off the rolling pins from the bottom of our kitchen drawers and announced that he was going to teach me how to make a pie. We went to get blueberries from the farmer’s market, and he taught me how to make the perfect crumbly pie crust.
While we were dusting the blueberries with powdered sugar, he told me about his childhood in Missouri. How he’d go to the fishing hole with his brothers to catch some fish for supper, and walk the railroad to get to the closest town. He told me that in his small town, baking was a way of creating community. They’d have bake-offs, where winning the blue ribbon gave you bragging rights for the rest of your life. We’ve made many pies since, and each one has given me more insight into my father’s past. For me, baking isn’t about creating the most beautiful pastry; it’s about taking time to learn more about my father.