Generations connected by Aunt Tammi's pies

The water in the sink is bobbing with apples as the hands of a 3-year-old grandson are grabbing each, doing his best duty assigned by the leader of this brigade, his Aunt Tammi. He's washing apples. Young David is standing on a chair that elevates him to a status befitting someone much older than he, in a kitchen so small that it takes only five or six big people steps to walk through it. My view is not only in my mind's eye of years ago, but in the everyday that leads up to this day, the Wednesday before the Thursday of Thanksgiving, and my view always makes me smile. Thirty years ago, my sister, Tammi, decided it was easier for her to make the family Thanksgiving pies of apple and pumpkin at our parents' house in Grafton instead of her home in Chardon. That Thanksgiving, tonight's tricennial, marked the Genesis moment of the making of Aunt Tammi's pies. The making of pies is an allegory to life. The house our parents raised us in, in Grafton, was on a quiet, once-upon-a-time farm road with a soybean field across the street and a rotation of field corn, wheat and straw in our backyard. There was and still is only one street lamp, lighting the railroad crossing of the faded tracks of the Baltimore and Ohio trains that fed coal and accepted grain at Grafton's flour mill where our grandfather was once the mill's superintendent. If you were to happen upon our home on a Thanksgiving eve of the past, you'd be greeted by the soft light shining through the kitchen window, and you'd hear the voices inside, young and old, equally teasing and loving each other. Determined hands are peeling apples. Slices with green and red skins are scattered across a table space surrounded by the help; grandchildren Briana and Justin, Riley and Julia, Caroline, Aidan, Maggie and Aneil, Carissa and David. Aunt Tammi selects Granny Smith, McIntosh and Jonathan apples. Her method is simple. The combination of sweet and sour makes it good. As in life, too much of anything is too much. We all search for the magical mix. Aunt Tammi brushes her hair back from her face with the base of her wrist because her fingers are coated in flour as she leads her troops, the oldest of which is 17 years older than the youngest. Everyone has a job. There are washers and peelers, cutters, crust makers, rollers, mixers of sugar and cinnamon and the final flair, the innovative creator of the pie tops. Each job is essential. A can of Crisco is always prominent, it seems. Maybe it's the blue wrap on the can that makes it stand out or maybe it's the memory of my nephew, Justin, eating spoonfuls of it on a bet. The bag of flour is not just an integral ingredient of the crust, it is also a tool of the artist that tosses it in both playful and fundamental purpose. Every now and then, a peeler cuts a finger with an aggressive stroke. Grandma Jantz dresses the cut, and the peeler returns. You play hurt on pie-making night. Diversity and opinion are also present at the table. They arrive in the form of tin and glass. Pies are made in each, and in each, a debated and suitable taste for the appreciative and opinionated palette. Our mom made aprons for each grandchild with their names on the front. Mom was an elementary school teacher. Order was important to her. So was fun. The aprons provided both, and the grandchildren wore them like coats of honor, symbols of their acceptance into their Aunt Tammi's pie-making assembly. Each of the 10 grandchildren still have their aprons, some marked by time as the letters of the names start to peel away. They'll all be wearing them tonight. The "kids" range in age from 17 to 34 and the aprons, especially on the five boys, look like tiny bibs now. It's beautiful. Our dad was a carpenter. Wood was one of his loves in life. The maplewood pin to roll out the pie dough is a tool of Aunt Tammi's trade and she hands it out to only those ambitious and fearless of the ridicule their cousins will cast as the mystery and frustration in the rolling of dough plays out. Sometimes it's not pretty but it is always entertaining. Tough skin is a must. I'm not sure how I feel about November. Our parents both passed in the 11th month of the year. They died one day and eight Novembers apart, each the week before Thanksgiving. It's been 11 Novembers since Dad died and three since mom. The week after she died we all gathered for pie making and Thanksgiving dinner at the home in Grafton our parents raised us in. It was therapeutic. It was needed. The pie making was the tie that bound us together. It did then, and it does now. Now, we gather at my brother and sister-in-law's house in Avon Lake. Creg and Anita's kitchen is even smaller than the one in our childhood home and the table where Aunt Tammi inspires her leads is smaller too, but our connection to family is bigger. Our family has grown. Marriage has welcomed Alyssa (Justin) and Olive (Riley) and young David has been replaced by young Cayden, who is 1½. My wife Stacy has been a part of all 30 of these nights and my sister Michelle's husband, Dave, has been there for 21. Anita, 27. I can see the apple cores stacked like a tower, squared perfectly in the harvest. I can see the attention to detail as the edges of the crust are pinched by tiny fingers and the top of the pies, carefully laid in lattice strips or custom designed, and the wide eyes of wonder as the kids watched their aunts and grandmother put the pies in the oven well past bedtime on Thanksgiving eve. I can smell the apples and the cinnamon, sugar and the crust. I can feel the warmth of the pies in the moment as they sit, eight of them, baked and now resting to cool. And I can taste the pie, too. Trust me. I eat it early. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Contact Ron Jantz at rjantz@chroniclet.com.