When Better Is Good, Chapter 3: Ruth’s Pie

The Sunday I had some of Ruth’s pie, we attended just the potluck, not the service. She had peaches slathered on top, gloriously. Weeks later, Paulson came home from church with her recipe. I’d asked for it.

(He’s less inclined than I am to skip, which you’ve possibly already deduced.)

I bought a 10-inch shell—the pie as I remembered it was large, generous, not a puny 9-incher. I beatered the cream cheese part, dolloped it all around in the shell, baked the thing. Then I piled on a black-raspberry sauce. But the pie was a bust—the crust brick-like, tasteless.

When I saw Ruth next, I told her the bad thing I’d done—a 10-inch crust, not 9-inch. And it wasn’t good like hers. Oh? I said. Keebler? I’d dived for the store brand. I was planning another try, I told her—I’d already smashed the graham crackers.

Our West Virginia friends came soon after, on a Tuesday. Here’s what was left when they left.

When Ruth says 9-inch, get 9-inch (if you’re buying). Do what Ruth says—and doesn’t say but does.