From the managing editor, August 2015

As a new bride on my grandfather’s family farm, my grandmother taught herself how to make pie crust in secret, feeding her failed attempts to the hogs. As my mom tells it, eventually she emerged victorious with a husband-worthy crust. From then on, she was as known for her buttery pecan pies as for her iron-willed determination.

As a small girl I watched, mesmerized, as Grandma taught my older sister her tricks. She believed in the power of a tried-and-true recipe, meticulously sifted flour, and lard measured just so. When she passed away, I was too young to have ever spent time by her side in the kitchen. Though my mom taught me how to confidently navigate a kitchen, she felt no desire to slave for hours over a dessert that could more easily be bought at the store.

By the time I became a bride, I still had never attempted a pie crust. I had long since concluded that the skill was best left to farm grandmothers and professionals. Without my grandma’s secrets—or any hogs around to help me learn—for years I accepted this gap in my repertoire as if it were pre-ordained. 

Last fall, my husband and I prepared to host a house full of out-of-state family members for Thanksgiving dinner—my biggest culinary challenge to date. For weeks we auditioned recipes for sweet potato casserole and corn bread, vegetable stuffings and bite-size appetizers. When it came to pie, though, there was no question: I planned to outsource. But when I pulled up the website of a local bakery to place an order, a tab for “workshops” caught my eye. A pre-holiday pie class promised to teach “the basics of crafting a flaky crust” and more. Buying a pie or two would be cheaper, but was this the opportunity I had been waiting for?

I took a deep breath and signed up. When the day of the class rolled around, I did my best to lower expectations. Once I arrived at Smoke Signals Bakery, though, my nerves evaporated—something about squishing fingers into flour and butter tends to have a calming effect, especially when done so in community. Every once in a while, our pie guru, Tara Jensen, stopped to work a bit of magic on my dough. Instead of a standard lattice pattern, we learned how to embellish our pies with decorative edges and designs. I cut out logs and flames and topped my pie with a campfire tableau made of pastry. 

As our pies baked in an outdoor wood-fired oven, we dressed up cardboard pie boxes with hand-carved stamps, then snacked on local cheese and wine. It was, as the website had promised, an “afternoon of artful baking.” When it was over, I brought home a golden masterpiece. I opened the pie box proudly, snapped a photo for posterity, and grabbed a fork. 

It was the most satisfying pie I’ve ever eaten. Don’t get me wrong: It wasn’t the flakiest or most delicious crust I’ve tasted. But I had made it from scratch, no Internet required, and my sense of accomplishment more than made up for any flaws. Even without the lard, I know Grandma would have approved—and so would that little girl who so admired her.

In this issue, we celebrate the way hands-on learning connects us to our ancestors while also opening up new sides of ourselves. Read “The School of Appalachia” to explore your own path forward.