Surprise of all surprises, a large amount of it was junk (didn't see that coming, I bet). Half of it wasn't even mine, and about a handful of it was handwritten recipes. Some from my great aunt, some from friends of ours long since forgotten, some from mom, and even some from young me. This recipe is one of mom's. Scribbled out on daytimer paper and horribly stained, you know it's got to be good.
I remembered the name of the pie, I remembered making it with her, but I couldn't remember how it turned out or what it tasted like. It was freshly impossible again! And that was really what motivated me the most to make it. That and because I wanted to stage some pictures with these fake daisies I found (in another box). Little fake icons of summer.
I feel almost badly that I'm even bothering with pictures of the pie. I feel like I'm ruining it for you. That leap of faith, that devil-may-care attitude, that thought that goes through your mind when you read the ingredients and the method. This shouldn't work into a pie. This can't be right. There's got to be a step missing. An ingredient! Something! And then you gingerly measure ingredients out and put them together and you keep reading and rereading the recipe just to make sure you've got it right. All of that is going to be lost on you, and that's sometimes half the fun of baking. Something I really miss. There's not a recipe out there these days where there isn't a picture of it (somewhere) or ratings from a gaggle of reviewers letting you know exactly what it is you're getting yourself into. I chose not to google this recipe until after I made it, and now I know there are pictures out there already (big surprise). So I figured I might as well have fun with my daisies because anyone who reads this will run over to google and search it anyway. I probably would have, too, if it hadn't have been my mom's recipe.