Pie, Memory, and a Whole Lot of Butter
By the size of my waistline, it’s clear I’ve enjoyed several delicious things over the years. I’m not shy about my love for food—comfort food, street food, grandma’s Sunday roasts, and that one time I accidentally stumbled into a Michelin-starred bistro thinking it was a diner (don’t ask).
But today, let’s zero in on a single dish. Not the most expensive, not the fanciest, and certainly not the healthiest. But maybe—just maybe-the most soul-hugging, tastebud-dancing, eye-closing bite of heaven I’ve ever had.
We’re talking nostalgia. Flavor. A moment in time where everything felt just right.
Let me take you there.
The most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten? That honor belongs to my mother-in-law’s Chess Pie.
Who knew eggs, butter, and sugar could transform into something so profoundly magical? No fancy ingredients. No secret spice blend stolen from an old monk in the mountains. Just pantry staples and a woman who understood what it meant to cook with heart.
When she made them—and I happened to be in town—she’d always bake one just for me. No slice, no dainty plate. I’d grab a fork and go in straight from the tin like a man possessed. I didn’t have time for pretense or politeness when it came to that pie.
My brothers-in-law and I used to laugh about it later—how they’d try to fight me for my special pie. They always lost. Bitterly. They’d grumble and sulk, but we all knew the truth: that pie had my name baked right into it.
She’s gone now. The oven’s long since cooled, but the memory of that pie clings to me like a warm quilt. Others have tried to replicate it. Good intentions, decent efforts… but no one’s even come close. Maybe they’re missing the butter. Maybe they’re missing the touch. But I think—more than anything—they’re just missing her.
Now, I’ve gone on many rants about that pie. My poor stepmom has heard them all. She’s a legend in her own right—her baked goods could have their own chapter in the “Food That’ll Ruin Your Diet (and You Won’t Care)” section of my memoirs.
One night, after listening to yet another pie lament, she leaned back with a smile and said, “I can make that pie. Matter of fact, mine’ll be your new favorite.”
Challenge accepted.
I went to the store like I had a hundred times before, rattling off that recipe list I had memorized more by heart than by paper. She worked her magic, put her spin on it, and soon her version of the legendary Chess Pie was cooling on the counter.
I dug in—fork first, as always. No formality. No mercy. The pie was incredible. Creamy, buttery, with that perfect caramelized top and a sweet, silky center. She beamed.
“It’s good, ain’t it?” she asked. “Better than hers, huh?”
Without skipping a beat, I said, “No.”
She looked at me like I’d just cussed in the middle of a sermon. And let me be clear—I’ve actually cussed in church before. I know that look.
“No ma’am,” I said. “It’s not hers. You added coconut. But listen—every time I visit, I’m gonna need this pie. That’s a fact.”
Her smile returned, full and wide. And when my brother took me to my mother-in-law’s funeral, there it was—my stepmom’s pie, waiting for me. A tribute. A comfort. A bridge between what was and what still remains.
I was blessed—richly blessed—to have three mother figures in my life. Each of them different. Each of them fierce in their love and quiet in their sacrifices. My stepmom is the only one who remains, and I don’t take that for granted.
So the next time I visit? I’ll be grubbing, fork in hand, diet be damned. That pie—her pie—now carries more than flavor. It carries memory, resilience, grief, love, and a whole lot of butter.
See, the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten wasn’t just about taste. It was about connection. About the sacred ritual of someone baking just for you. About loss and legacy, and how sometimes, healing shows up in a crust that cracks just right.
Food has a funny way of holding memory, doesn’t it? And if you’re lucky—really lucky—it’ll also hold the people you’ve loved, the ones who made the world feel safe, sweet, and whole.
Memoirs of Madness 