for Peggy…
for Rob…
Music Cue:
Find a comfortable position.
Let your eyes gently close, or soften your gaze downward.
Take a deep breath in…
and now - out.
Today, we’re going to explore the Art of making a pie...
Not rushing toward the finished product, but truly savoring each moment of creation.
Because sometimes, the sweetest moments aren’t at the end - they’re baked right into the process itself.
the Gathering
Imagine yourself in a kitchen.
Your kitchen, or perhaps a kitchen from memory - a place that feels like home.
Notice the light coming through the window.
Feel the cool countertop beneath your fingertips.
The cat in a quiet, shadowed corner - observing.
You’re gathering your ingredients:
Flour.
Butter.
Salt.
Sweetener.
Measuring cups and spoons.
A towel.
A bowl of ripe fruit, whatever the season offers.
There’s no hurry here.
This moment - right now - is exactly where you need to be.
Take a breath and notice: This is happening.
This simple act of gathering.
You don’t need to fast-forward to the golden-brown crust.
You’re here, now - and that’s enough.
the Mixing & Kneading
Pour the flour out, weigh it.
Consider the bowl of flour:
The fields it once grew in...
The mills it once passed through...
The shipping to a store shelf it once sat upon...
This moment in your kitchen...
Watch it offer small kitchen clouds, softly.
Watch the dust motes catching light.
Add chunks of cold butter.
Begin to work it with your fingers - pressing, blending, feeling the texture change from separate ingredients into something unified.
Notice the sensations:
The cold butter.
The silky flour.
The cool mixing bowl.
Your hands - moving with intention, with small pleasures, with an abiding presence.
The dough doesn’t form all at once:
It comes together gradually, and that’s not a problem - that’s the process.
The process that we are here for.
Each press of your fingers matters.
This moment matters.
Feel your breath moving in rhythm with your hands.
Notice the small magic that is the transformation of varied ingredients forming one new thing...this dough.
Notice the small magic that is the transformation of this dough from non-uniform, to sticky and uniform, to smooth and silky uniformity...
Notice, also your quiet breathing.
The pleasures of breath, of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this moment.
the Rolling Out
The dough rests, and so do you.
A few deep breaths.
Then you flour your surface and begin to roll.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Feel the gentle resistance, then the yielding.
The dough spreads wider, thinner, becoming what it needs to become.
There is no forcing.
Just a steady and present attention.
Notice how the old rolling pin feels in your hands.
(This old rolling pin is worn smooth from years of stories!)
Notice the slight pull in your shoulders as you lean into the motion.
The way the dough turns, responds, cooperates with you.
Breathe in the scent of newly shaped dough
- and there is just this moment, this motion, this breath.
Turn the dough a quarter turn.
Roll again.
Turn the dough a quarter turn.
Roll again.
You’re not somewhere else.
You’re breathing, you’re rolling, you’re here.
You’re all here...
Turn the dough a quarter turn.
Roll again.
Turn the dough a quarter turn.
Roll again.
You’re not anywhere else.
You’re breathing, you’re rolling, you’re here.
You’re all here...
You’re here, in this simple, repetitive, strangely sacred act.
Notice, also your quiet breathing.
The pleasures of breath, of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this moment.
the Filling
Now, the fruit:
Imagine slicing it - whether apples, berries, peaches, or cherries.
Perhaps cranberries.
Notice the colors.
The way juice might cling to your fingers.
The scent rising up, sweet and alive.
As you arrange the filling in your crust, feel the care in your movements.
Each piece placed with attention.
You’re not building toward something else - you are in the building process.
Utterly committed.
You are present with the filling, with the fruit, with this moment.
Some slices fit perfectly.
Others overlap.
There’s a beauty in the imperfection.
In the realness.
In the here and now.
Sprinkle cinnamon, sugar, a dot of butter.
Notice these small acts.
They aren’t too small to matter.
Nothing is too small when you’re truly present.
Notice, also your quiet, calm, abiding breaths.
The pleasures of breath, of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this moment.
the Top Crust
You drape the top crust, lovingly over your filling like a blanket.
Trim the edges.
Tuck in your sweetie.
Crimp the edges with a fork as you spin the pie tin
- each press leaving its small mark, its unique signature.
An artifact of your attentiveness and presence.
Cut small vents in the top - little openings for steam to escape.
Even pies need to breathe.
Even in the midst of transformation, there’s room for release.
Brush the top with cream or an egg wash.
Watch it glisten.
This moment, right now, as the light catches the surface - it’s complete in itself.
Not waiting to be complete.
Already whole.
Notice, again your soothing breathing.
The pleasures of breath, of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this moment.
Into the Oven
You slide your pie into the dry and powerful heat of the oven.
Feel its heat wash over your face.
Wow!
Close the door.
And now…you wait.
But this waiting isn’t empty.
It’s full.
Full of warmth radiating.
Full of anticipation that isn’t anxious - just alive.
Full of the knowledge that change is happening, even when you can’t see it.
Breathe here:
In this in-between time.
Breathe here.
In this space where you’ve done what you can do, and now transformation happens in its own time.
Breathe here.
Transformation happens without your intervention or observation.
Breathe here.
Notice any restlessness.
Breathe here, too.
Notice any urge to rush ahead.
And gently return to this breath.
This moment.
Breathe here, too.
The warmth in the room.
The subtle scent beginning to bloom.
Breathe here, too.
Breathe, now.
Tidying the Space
As the pie bakes, you turn to the kitchen.
Not to distract yourself - but to stay with the moment.
To tend to the space that held your creation.
You begin to clean.
Slowly.
Intentionally.
A bowl rinsed.
Never forgetting the pleasure of a slow and complete breath.
A counter wiped.
Never forgetting the pleasure of a slow and complete breath.
A spoon returned to its place.
Never forgetting the pleasure of a slow and complete breath.
Each gesture is a breath.
Each motion, a kind of gratitude.
Notice the warmth in the room.
The scent beginning to rise.
The way your hands move with quiet purpose - not rushing, not escaping, just being here.
Soon, the inbreaths each carry the scent of nostalgia, of sweetness, of dessert, of pie!
Each inbreath demands its own outbreath - its own letting go.
“Not yet“, the departing breath reminds
“Not yet.”
Inhale, cooking pie.
Appreciation...
Exhale, still cooking pie.
Never forgetting the pleasure of a slow and complete breath.
You continue the clearing, the wiping, the cleaning, the replacing:
There’s something sacred in this tending.
In the way flour lifts from the surface.
In the way waters run clear.
In the way order returns, not as control, but as care.
As emptiness returns to the cleared and cleaned work surfaces, potential returns as well.
You’re not waiting for the pie to finish.
You’re not trying to fill time.
You’re simply present with what this moment offers: a chance to restore, to notice, to honor the space that held your making.
This, too, is part of the recipe.
the Reveal
Time passes.
You open the oven door, and there it is: golden, bubbling, gloriously imperfect.
(Like each of us, perhaps?)
Steam rises like a whispered blessing.
But notice - notice this moment right here, as you set it on the counter.
Not the moment some many minutes from now when you’ll taste it.
This moment:
The heat rising.
Steam tendrils curling upward.
This moment:
The cooling rack, not yet bent with the weight of a full pie, cold on the counter - empty...
The way the crust has browned in its own unique way.
This moment:
The small imperfections that make it real, that make it this pie.
This is savoring -
Not the first bite - though that will come.
But savoring the nowness of now.
The presence of this present.
Notice, also your slow, enjoyable, breaths.
The pleasures of breath, of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this moment.
Noticing Nourishment
As the pie upon grandma’s cooling rack cools slightly, you cut a slice.
The crust gives, splits, crumbles...
Steam escapes.
The filling reveals itself - glistening, warm, alive!
There is a great release of steam.
There is oozing.
The pie tin takes on a new color.
The air is filled! with magic!
Your eyes fill before your stomach.
Perhaps a tear wells up - the eye salivates!
You lift the fork to your lips, and you pause...
Just for one breath.
Noticing.
The scent.
The colors.
The weight.
The heat.
The moment before the moment.
And then...
...you taste.
But more than the flavor, notice that you are here for this very moment.
(Perhaps nearly fully.)
You haven’t missed this moment by being somewhere else in your mind.
You are present with sweetness.
You are present with warmth.
You are present with recipe, with story, with history, with weight.
You are present with nourishment.
Your presence is nourishment.
This is what it means to savor - not just to taste, but to be fully present with the tasting.
To notice this moment as it unfolds.
Not grasping for the next bite.
Not lost in memory of the last bite.
Just here.
Just now.
Just this.
Just pie.
the Closing
Take a deep breath.
And another.
You can carry this with you -
-this practice of noticing.
-this practice of savoring.
-this practice of being present with nourishment, whether it comes in the form of food, or rest, or connection, or simply a quiet moment.
The invitation is simple:
Don’t wait for the perfect moment to be present.
This moment, whatever it holds, is worth noticing.
Your noticing is the gift to the moment.
If judgement precedes noticing, the noticing isn’t a gift.
It is a servant to preference.
Offer yourself to each moment.
As it is
For what it is
For what it isn’t
As you are.
After all, the present is a gift - and so is pie.
Notice, again your mindful breathing.
The deep pleasure of each breath, the deep pleasure of process...
The pleasure of devoting yourself to this, any, each, every moment.
When you’re ready, gently open your eyes or lift your gaze.
Wiggle your fingers and toes.
(Maybe move your tongue through your mouth seeking any remaining morsels.)
Return to the room, bringing with you this capacity to savor, to notice, to be nourished by the moment you’re in.
Thank you for being here.
For this practice.
For this moment of presence.
Thank you.
