Pear Crisp — The Recipe That Tastes Like Going Home

I got a letter this week. From a woman in Atlanta named Grace who read my book. She wrote — on paper, with a pen, which I respect enormously — to tell me that she made shrimp and grits from my recipe for her dying mother. Her mother was in hospice. Grace hadn't cooked in years — her mother had been the cook in the family, same as mine. But she read the shrimp and grits chapter and she went to the kitchen and she made them, and she brought them to the hospice room, and her mother ate three spoonfuls and said, "That's home."

Three spoonfuls. And then she passed. Two days later. Grace's mother ate shrimp and grits and said "That's home" and died with the taste of home in her mouth. Grace wrote to me to say thank you. She wrote, "Your recipe gave my mother her last good meal. I don't know how to thank someone for that."

I sat at the kitchen table and I held that letter and I wept. Not for Grace's mother, who I never knew. For the food. For what food can do. For the fact that a recipe I wrote down on an iPad with one finger traveled from my kitchen to a bookstore to a woman in Atlanta to a hospice room to a dying woman's last meal. The food traveled. The love traveled. The tradition traveled. And a woman died tasting home because someone stood at a stove and stirred.

I wrote Grace back. I said, "Your mother's three spoonfuls are the best review my book will ever receive. Thank you for cooking for her. Thank you for feeding her home." I sealed the envelope and mailed it and stood at the mailbox and thought: this is why, baby. This is why I cook. This is why I wrote the book. This is why I type with one finger and talk to a recorder and stand at a stove on knees that want to quit. Because somewhere, someone is hungry for home, and the recipe can get them there.

Now go on and feed somebody.

After I mailed that letter back to Grace, I stood in my kitchen and I needed to cook something. Not shrimp and grits—I wasn’t ready to make those again yet, not that day. I needed something warm and simple, something that fills a house with the smell of home the way only baked fruit and butter can. So I made this pear crisp, the one my mother used to slide out of the oven on autumn evenings when the world outside was getting cold. If you’re feeding somebody who needs to remember where they belong, start here.

Pear Crisp

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 35 minutes | Total Time: 50 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

• 5 medium ripe pears, peeled, cored, and sliced
• 2 tablespoons lemon juice
• 1/4 cup granulated sugar
• 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
• 3/4 cup old-fashioned rolled oats
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• 1/2 cup packed brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/3 cup cold unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Set your oven to 350°F (175°C). Lightly grease an 8x8-inch baking dish.
2. Prepare the pears. Toss the sliced pears with lemon juice, granulated sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Spread them evenly in the prepared baking dish.
3. Make the crumble topping. In a medium bowl, combine the oats, flour, brown sugar, and salt. Cut in the cold butter using a pastry cutter or your fingers until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pea-sized pieces remaining.
4. Assemble. Scatter the crumble topping evenly over the pears. Do not pack it down—you want it loose so it crisps up.
5. Bake. Bake for 33–35 minutes, until the topping is golden brown and the pear juices are bubbling around the edges.
6. Rest and serve. Let the crisp cool for 10 minutes before serving. Serve warm, on its own or with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 310 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 11g | Carbs: 54g | Fiber: 5g | Sodium: 100mg