My grandmother used to bake the most amazing pies.  Everyone would exclaim over the flakiness of her crusts.  Try as she might, my mother could never replicate the success of Nana's pies, even though she followed the recipe exactly.  No other pie in my lifetime has been able to compare to the pies my grandmother made, and I think I know why.

I often lived with my grandparents while my mother was off having her dysfunctional life.  Some of my best memories took place in my grandmother's kitchen.  I was tiny, and prone to violent coughing spells.  I refused to be anywhere but right next to my Nana while she baked, so she tied dishtowels around my waist to fasten me to a kitchen chair.  That way, she wouldn't have to worry about me coughing myself off the chair and toppling to the floor.

Nana was very particular about her pie crusts.  The butter had to be quite cold before she cut it into the flour, and the few drops of water she used to moisten the dough had been chilled in the freezer.  Careful not to overwork the dough, she rolled it out with precision, and then placed it lovingly into her fluted pie pans.  I loved those pie pans; they were Art, with their perfect ripply edges.

There was always just a little bit of dough left over, just enough to cut into inch-wide strips which Nana would bake in leftover aluminum pot-pie tins.  These were for me, and she dusted them with brown sugar and cinnamon before popping them into the oven for a few minutes.  They were so delicious when they came out all golden brown, crisp and warm, and I knew I was special.

It's not easy to make a flaky crust with whole-grain spelt flour, but I do my best.  The most important part of the process that I learned from my grandmother was adding the ingredients of love and mindfulness--making it all Special.  As I bake now, with my son, I hope that I am passing on this important lesson.  We bake with love- the most important ingredient.