A Memory About Pumpkin Pie

My mother was a WWII war bride. Born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. My father worked for Lockheed overseas and was sent to Belfast in 1942 or 1943 (I’m not entirely sure – maybe one of my sisters will enlighten me). He was a young man from North Dakota who apparently got a wild hair and decided to go to California. Once there he was employed by Lockheed Corporation – I think he worked on airplanes. Again, I’m not entirely sure.

Meanwhile, my mother and her sister Bettie decided to enlist in the Women’s Royal Naval Service (WRNS – an acronym pronounced “wrens”). They lived with my grandparents in Belfast on Roosevelt Street in what was, in this country, considered a “brownstone”. I was twelve years old the last time I was at No. 10. Very special.

There were so many war stories that they could tell and I wish I knew more about them. My grandparents had an open-house policy for any of the allied troops or the “yanks” who needed some family time and many of them ate a meal or two at No. 10 Roosevelt Street.

Long story short, my parents met, fell in love and within a few weeks married. I was born nine months (to the day but I was a preemie – really) later. When I was four months old my mother brought me over to the “States” in a convoy of ships – many of them lost during the trip. Another story for another time.

Long story shorter: Mother had a lot of adjusting to do and she was a real trooper! Her first Thanksgiving she decided to make a pumpkin pie to surprise my father. So she made a pie crust (and she made the BEST pie crusts), opened a can of pumpkin, dumped it in, smoothed the top and popped it in the oven.

After dinner (actually in North Dakota it was “supper” because the big meal was at noon and was called dinner) she proudly served the pie to my father. Need I say more? The poor thing did not realize that you need to add sugar, spices, eggs and cream to the canned pumpkin. I understand that my father was as diplomatic as he could be under the circumstances but mom never really got over that first “faux pas”. In any case, she turned out to be a wonderful cook. I learned how to fry chicken from her that was crispy (not in the least greasy) on the outside and tender and juicy inside. Good stuff!!

After we get back to Minnesota, I’ll post some pictures of dear Lillian