I’m eating a leftover piece of mushroom pie this
morning and with it, I’m having memories. The first time I had mushroom pie was
in the upstairs apartment of a young couple in the rural, logging and potato
farming town of Ashland, Maine. We had come from the Pacific Northwest to this
little town in Northern Maine, near the Canadian border, to be a part of church
that Tom had been invited to pastor. Alongside the highway that led to other places
from Ashland, grew evergreens, fireweed, ferns (that people picked “fiddle
heads” from in the spring), birch trees, and a multitude of other deciduous
trees that turned brilliant hues in the fall.
This young couple, who had invited us to dinner, had
also just recently moved to Ashland. He
was a doctor, and in exchange for payment of his education expenses, he’d agreed
to serve the community. The pie was made in the form of a turnover with a
savory filling of chopped mushrooms, onions, a little egg, parsley, garlic, and
thyme. The crust was made with flour, butter, and cream cheese. I asked for the
recipe and started making it, in the form of a pie, for special occasions.
Corina was just a little girl of two or three at the
time, so she grew up with mushroom pie. She had come to us from Cacutta, India
shortly after we moved to Ashland. The church held a fund raising dinner to
help us with the adoption expenses. They welcomed her joyfully when we returned
from a trip to Boston, where we received her at the Logan International
Airport. I kept her with me in the teen Sunday school class that I taught and
the teens took turns holding her. As she grew bigger, I carried her on my hip at church and the children came up and tickled her feet. The Ashland church holds a special place in my heart. Tom sang, played his guitar, taught and preached, and visited families who opened their hearts and homes to us.
There have been a lot of holidays, since our time in Ashland, that included mushroom pie. Corina and I liked it more than the rest of the family
did; so it was our special thing to share. She makes it for herself and her adventuresome,
loving husband Ethan. I texted her yesterday and told her I was making it. “I’ll
save you a piece,” I said. She’s coming over today to relax with us while her
husband is gone camping. I am thankful to be living near my daughter now. She is a joy and she has been a comfort in the loss of my husband six years ago. I
moved to Washington, with my son’s two children, which I’m raising, in October.
I needed to be near her and Ethan, near my mom and brothers, and near John, my love, who
takes me for rides in his red ford truck. I am thankful to be here and I am also thankful for the memories that
mushroom pie brings to me.
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