Special Raisin Pie —rsquo; The Taste of a Kitchen That Holds Everything

Peter did not call. I called him. He picked up on the third try. He sounded thin — the way he has sounded for months now, the way Pappa used to sound. I told him about the meatballs I was making. He said he wished he was here. I said come for Christmas. He said he would try. I did not push. I did not lecture. I said I loved him. I hung up the phone and I stood at the kitchen sink for a long minute looking at the lake. Sophie texted a photo of Mira eating cereal. Mira's face was covered in milk. The photo was lit from the side by morning light and the smile in it was uninhibited and full and I could not stop looking at it. I printed the photo. I taped it to the fridge. I have a system on the fridge now: a column for each grandchild, a column for each great-grandchild, photos rotated weekly. The fridge is the gallery. The gallery is the proof. Peter called from Chicago. He sounded thinner than last week. He said work was fine. I do not believe him. He said his apartment was fine. I do not believe him either. He asked about the dog. He asked about the lake. He told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too. I told him about the bread I was baking. He said he could almost smell it through the phone. We hung up. I stood at the sink for a long minute. I did not know what else to do. I cooked Rhubarb pie this week. The first rhubarb of the season, cubed, tossed with sugar and a little flour, baked in a butter-and-lard crust. Tart and bright. The taste of the garden waking. Damiano Thursday. A teenage boy came in alone. He was hungry. He did not want to make eye contact. I served him soup. I did not make small talk. He ate two bowls. He left. The not-asking was the gift. The not-asking is sometimes the right form of attention. The teenagers know. The kitchen is the reliquary. I have used this word in the blog before. I am using it again because it is the right word. A reliquary is the container that holds the bones of the saints. The kitchen holds the bones of my saints — Pappa, Lars, Mamma, Paul, Erik, the first Sven, the second Sven. The bones are not literal bones. The bones are the marble slab and the bread pans and the glasses on the shelf and the wooden spoon worn smooth by Mamma's hand. The kitchen holds them. The kitchen is what holds them. It is enough. It has to be. And on a morning like this, with the lake doing what the lake does and the dog at my feet and the bread on the counter and the kitchen warm enough to live in, it is. Sven (whichever Sven I am living with at the moment) has the daily distinction of being the most consistent presence in my life. He follows me from kitchen to porch to bedroom. He sleeps within ten feet of me at all times. He notices when I am sad and he comes to put his head on my knee and the head is heavy and warm and the heaviness is the comfort. The dog is not a person. The dog is the only creature in the house, however, and the dog does the work that another person would do if there were one. The dog is enough. It is enough.

The rhubarb pie came first that week — tart and bright and insistent, the way spring insists — but it was the raisin pie I kept coming back to. There is something about raisins, concentrated and dark and sweet in a way that is almost mournful, that felt right for the week I had been having: the phone calls with Peter, the photo of Mira on the fridge, the standing at the sink. The Special Raisin Pie is what my grandmother would have called a “keeping pie” — the kind that is still good three days later, the kind that holds. I needed something that held.

Special Raisin Pie

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr 5 min | Servings: 8

Ingredients

• 1 unbaked 9-inch pie shell (homemade butter-and-lard crust preferred)
• 2 cups raisins
• 1 1/2 cups water
• 3/4 cup granulated sugar
• 3 tablespoons cornstarch
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 2 tablespoons unsalted butter
• 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest
• 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
• Whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, for serving (optional)

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven. Heat your oven to 425°F (220°C). Fit the pie shell into a 9-inch pie plate, crimp the edges, and refrigerate while you prepare the filling.
2. Simmer the raisins. Combine the raisins and water in a medium saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a gentle simmer and cook for 5 minutes, until the raisins are plump and the water is lightly colored.
3. Thicken the filling. In a small bowl, whisk together the sugar, cornstarch, and salt. Stir this mixture into the simmering raisins, stirring constantly, and cook for 3–4 minutes until the filling has thickened and turned glossy.
4. Finish the filling. Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in the butter, lemon juice, lemon zest, and vanilla extract. Allow the filling to cool slightly for 5 minutes — it should be warm but not scalding when it goes into the shell.
5. Fill and bake. Pour the filling into the prepared pie shell. Bake at 425°F for 15 minutes, then reduce the oven temperature to 350°F (175°C) and bake for an additional 25–30 minutes, until the crust is deep golden and the filling is set at the edges with only a slight jiggle at the center.
6. Cool before slicing. Transfer the pie to a wire rack and allow it to cool for at least 1 hour before slicing. The filling will continue to set as it rests. Serve at room temperature or slightly warm, with whipped cream if you like.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 310 | Protein: 3g | Fat: 10g | Carbs: 54g | Fiber: 2g | Sodium: 140mg