That Buttermilk Pie by Donnie Kingman The smell of good things cooking greets us as we step up on the back porch at Grandma and Grandpa's house. "Come on in," Grandma says as Grandpa holds the screen door. We pass through the dining room into Grandma's kitchen. The good smells are coming from chicken and green beans cooking on the old wood stove. "Sit down," Grandma tells Mama, who is holding my baby sister. This is a special time for my two younger brothers and me, getting to come to Grandma's house. She always makes us a pie. Grandma's pies are good. She makes wonderful dried-apple pies and peach cobblers made with thick, buttery crusts. But buttermilk pie is my favorite. "You kids must be hungry," Grandma says. "Get yourself some bread and meat off the cabinet." Grandma keeps a meat platter with fried ham or bacon and cold biscuits on the kitchen cabinet. My younger brothers, William and John, take their ham and biscuits and go outside. They want to go with Daddy and Grandpa to look at the chickens. Mama and Grandma are chatting. Grandma is short and round. She's wearing a pink cotton dress that makes her brown eyes shine. Her long, dark hair is wound in a knot on top of her head. Mama is tall and strong. She's wearing her new blue striped dress and has brown, bobbed hair. Grandma looks at me and smiles. "You look pretty in pink," "It's like yours, Grandma. Mama made it." "Something smells good," Mama says. "We'll have chicken and dumplings and green beans for dinner. I've got plenty of buttermilk so I thought I'd make two buttermilk pies," Grandma answers. I smile. Grandma, wearing her white bib apron, says, "I've already made the crust. We ain't got much else, but we got plenty of milk and eggs." In West Texas, 1927 is a year without much rain. Crops are poor, but Grandpa has 500 white leghorn laying hens to supplement their income. As Mama adds mesquite wood to the cookstove, she says, "Donnie, run and get us some wood. The wood box is about empty." I run to the woodpile, load my arms with short, round sticks, and hurry back so I won't miss anything. I hear Mama saying, as I bring in the wood, "What can I do?" "Will you bring me some butter and buttermilk from the milk pan?" Grandma answers. The milk pan is a 30-inch-square zinc pan, 9 inches deep. It sits on a table in the dining room near the kitchen door. It holds water to keep the milk and butter cool. Grandma is standing by the cabinet with a big bowl, a spoon and fork. "Grandma, how do you make buttermilk pie?" I ask. "Well," she says, "for each pie you use about 1/2 cup butter . . ." She puts butter in the bowl and adds 1 1/2 cups sugar and 2 eggs. After beating them with a fork, she adds 2/3 cup buttermilk and stirs it all together. "That's all there is to it. She pours the mixture into the prepared piecrust and carefully places the pies in the hot oven. "Hope this oven is all right," she mutters. "Sometimes it's too hot and sometimes not hot enough." (In my modern oven, I bake the pie at 415 degrees Fahrenheit for 15 minutes, then lower the temperature to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and bake it for another 40-45 minutes, until the pie is golden-brown on top.) Mama says, "When you're ready, I'll make the biscuits. Nothing makes biscuits as good as fresh-churned buttermilk." Mama puts my baby sister on a quilt on the kitchen floor. "First, I'll make the dumplings," Grandma answers. "Why don't you scrape the potatoes to go on the beans?" I sit on the floor, play with the baby, and listen. "Grandma, I smell pies." "Oh my Lord, I hope I haven't let them burn!" I'm up and beside her as she opens the oven door. They are golden-brown and slightly rounded on top--and they smell good. "They're beautiful," I say. I learned that word in first grade. "Grandma, can I set the table in the kitchen?" I like to eat in the kitchen where it's warm and the good smells are. "If you want to," she answers as she drops the dumplings into the boiling chicken broth. "Finish setting the table and go call the men to get ready for dinner," Mama tells me. Dinner is our noonday meal and she has the biscuits ready to go into the hot oven. "Dinner is ready," I call to the men at the chicken pens. Soon they are on the back porch washing and getting ready to eat. "Wash your face and hands," Daddy says to my brothers. We all sit down at the table. "Looks good," Grandpa says. "We're lucky to live on a farm where we have plenty to eat." Food is on our plates and everyone is eating. Everything tastes good. The grown-ups are talking. I think of a little song and sing, "I like to come to Grandma's house, to Grandma's house." "Donnie, don't sing at the table," Daddy says. He turns to Grandpa. "We sure need rain. I don't know how much longer the crops can last. Pa, do you see any signs of it raining anyway soon?" "There's going to be a change in the weather by the end of the week," Grandpa replies. "There was a ring around the moon last night." He watches the sun and moon and changes in nature for weather signs. There is a lot of talk about dry weather. Now it's time for pie. Grandma cuts us big pieces. I slowly take a bite.