When we were kids growing up in Wisconsin, my sister and I learned how to bake pies on Saturday mornings. My mom tied aprons around our waists, and we helped her make two pies—egg custard was her favorite—to serve as dessert with dinner for the upcoming week. Those were the days when dessert was expected with every evening meal.

I remember measuring out the ingredients for two pies and mixing it all together in a big mixing bowl until Mom said the texture was perfect. She prepared a ball of pie crust dough, and we spread flour on wax paper to take turns rolling it out with a wooden rolling pin. Once the crusts were laid in the pie plates, we poured the sugary pie filling into them and licked the spoons. While the pies were baking, we basked in the warmth of the kitchen on frigid winter days, enjoying the aroma of egg custard with vanilla and nutmeg baking in the oven.

My mouth waters when I recall tasting those delicious warm pies on baking day. Even now, it’s difficult for me to refuse a slice of homemade pie—any kind of pie. When I moved to Virginia, I was thrilled to find a cozy restaurant near Claytor Lake, an hour southwest of Roanoke, where “Friday is Pie Day.”

Death by Pie
by Dee Bowlin

My, oh my, I'll surely die 
if all I eat is pie.
At mealtime or between time, 
never need a reason why.
I can't resist warm cherry
or apple or a berry.
With whipped cream or soft ice cream,
my fork has yet to tarry.
All cobblers are divine 
with creme pies next in line.
A flaky crust or crumb crust—
either one is more than fine.
My, oh my, I'll surely die,
but when I do, don't cry.
Slice one up and celebrate
my glorious death by pie.