her have her way.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Jayce called as his daughter passed by.
“Grandma’s,” Prissie replied. “I need to practice.”
“Sure, sure,” her father replied. “It’s a good thing there are two kitchens on this farm, or Zeke and I would be out of luck.” Her younger brother grinned from his perch on a step stool, proudly wearing one of his father’s aprons. Wednesdays were always their dad’s half days, so he came home early to hang out with them around the house, often making a mess of their kitchen in the process.
She regularly experimented with new recipes herself, usually with less-than-stellar results, but she was determined to conquer the culinary arts. The only problem was … she wasn’t very good at it. To be perfectly honest, she was terrible at it.
Jayce had offered to teach his daughter everything he knew, but she was privately frustrated with him for being so comfortable in an area where she struggled. It was much easier to go to Grandma Nell for lessons, so Prissie conveniently ignored the fact that her father and brother were bonding by making candied rose petals.
A half hour later, she was liberally sprinkled with flour and grimly gripping the handles of a rolling pin. “Gently, sweetie,” urged Grandma Nell. “You need a delicate touch when it comes to pastry.”
“I know,” she tersely replied.
“You should accept the advice of those who are wiser than you,” remarked Koji, who’d stationed himself on top of her grandparents’ refrigerator. Prissie shot him a dark look, which he met with an uncertain smile.
“Lighter, lighter, dear,” urged Grandma Nell, demonstrating again with a deft turn of her round of dough. With sure hands, she rolled out the pastry, transferred it into a waiting pie tin and then crimped the edges.
Prissie banged at her lump of dough and sighed in dissatisfaction when the crust tore. With a scowl, she folded it over to try again.
Grandma peered over her shoulder. “You should have just patched it.”
“But it wasn’t right!” argued Prissie.
“It’s okay to have a little imperfection,” the older woman tutted.
“I can’t have any mistakes if I’m going to win a ribbon at the fair!” she protested.
“People expect a homemade pie to have a few irregularities. Trying to hide them only makes matters worse because overworking the crust toughens it,” Grandma Nell explained. “Don’t worry so much about how it looks; taste is the important thing.”
“Yours always look perfect,” Prissie pointed out dejectedly.
“I’ve had a few more years of experience,” her grandmother chuckled. “Speaking of taste, have you decided what kind of pie you’re making for the competition?”
“Will the apples from Great-grandma’s trees be ready in time?”
“Oh, I dunno. It’ll be close, but you might find enough ripe apples to work with.”
“I will ask Abner to help if you want,” offered Koji from overhead.
Prissie knew she’d heard that name before. “Who?”
“What, dear?” asked her grandmother, who was mixing up a crumb topping.
She made a shushing motion at the boy and replied, “Grandpa always brags about those apples and the pies his mother made from them.”
Nell’s blue eyes sparkled. “That’s the truth, and for good reason. Pete’s mother loved those trees! Their apples were the secret behind her pink applesauce, which was the prettiest color, and without a drop of food coloring to help things along.”
“I maybe remember it … a little.”
“You were only five when she passed on, but you loved the color pink even then,” Nell smiled. “I’ll see if I can hunt up her recipe. She was real particular about the blend of apples, and that may translate into a winning pie.”
“Shouldn’t I make up my own recipe?” Prissie asked.
Grandma Nell shook a floury finger in her direction. “Those who are smart learn from those who are wise. And it will be your own recipe if you’re adapting Mother Pomeroy’s pink applesauce into a pie.”
Prissie’s eyes took on the shine of anticipation. “I want to! Can I?”
“I don’t see why not,” her grandmother said with an indulgent smile. “But first things first, roll out your crust.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Prissie exclaimed, using her rolling pin to give the dough a zealous thump that made Nell — and Koji — wince.
“My pie looks pitiful,” Prissie mourned as she slid it into the oven next to her grandmother’s. “Neil is going to make fun of it; I just know it.”
“I would like to taste your pie,” Koji declared.
“I could probably sneak you a piece,” Prissie offered. “Momma wouldn’t mind.”
“Perhaps … perhaps if I …” the