Sara Lee vs. Tara Lea?

I come from a line of school lunch ladies that would make any family proud.  Initially, my grandmother managed the lunch program at Ethan Public Schools, followed by my mother who succeeded her. For a remarkable thirty-six years, they provided nutritious meals and delightful desserts. In the summer of 1980, my mother traveled to Brookings, South Dakota, to join other lunch program workers from the state for a training session where they shared recipes and brainstormed enhancements for their programs. During this time, I was responsible for preparing meals for my father, a responsibility I embraced wholeheartedly.

Preparing food for my father made me nervous, because my mother is a fabulous cook. For many years, we faced financial constraints, yet she managed to prepare nutritious and tasty meals with whatever ingredients we had on hand. During the summers, my parents cultivated a sizable vegetable garden. Mom preserved the surplus by canning it, ensuring we had food throughout the winter months. As a family, we often assisted my Uncle Gus in harvesting corn or making sausage, and in return, he would share the proceeds with us. We purchased eggs and milk from local sources, as it was more economical compared to buying from a grocery store. I also recall Mom collaborating with the other lunch ladies to buy a side of beef from a school supplier; they divided the meat equally among their families. We never wanted for good food in the Oberembt household, so I didn't want to disappoint my father with inadequate meals.

By 1980, all my siblings had moved out, so when Mom traveled to Brookings I was left in charge of cooking for Dad. My culinary creations included gourmet options like fried bologna and scrambled eggs alongside toast. Dad was generous with his compliments, appreciating my cooking and motivating me to continue. This encouragement led me to experiment with bolder meals, including spaghetti topped with jarred sauce and grilled cheese paired with canned tomato soup. I know – quite impressive! As the week drew to a close, I decided to attempt making a pie. With my mother and grandmother being exceptional pie bakers, I was eager to showcase my own culinary abilities and prove I could achieve their level of skill.

Initially, I set out to search for the recipe in my mother’s recipe box. Once I found it, I went through the instructions and thought it appeared to be fairly simple. I combined the flour, butter, shortening, and salt using a pastry cutter, then transferred the dough onto the countertop. I then used a rolling pin to shape the dough into a round form. However, it ended up being more elongated and oval, so I gathered it into a ball and attempted the process once more. It still wasn’t perfect, so I rolled it out again. And again. And again. Eventually, I was satisfied with how it looked and placed the crust into a prepped pie tin to bake.

Since the recipe didn’t provide instructions for baking an unfilled pie crust, I guessed. I set the oven to 400 degrees and placed the crust inside for approximately thirty minutes. During this time, I took out a box of chocolate pudding and mixed it following the instructions given on the box. Once the timer chimed, I opened the oven to take out my creation. Unfortunately, the crust had bubbled because I hadn’t used anything to weigh it down, and the prolonged baking time at such a high temperature resulted in it turning a deep, crispy brown. Although I felt quite disappointed by this outcome, I thought the pudding would conceal most of the imperfections. Without allowing the crust to cool, I poured the instant pudding into the shell and then stored it all in the fridge to chill before supper. I couldn't wait to show Dad my masterpiece!

When Dad returned home, he took a shower while I made dinner. Although I can't recall the exact dish we had that night, the pie is definitely etched in my memory! Once we finished our meals, I fetched two dessert plates along with clean forks and a knife to serve the pie. As I took out the chocolate pie, I realized the pudding was much runnier than I had expected. Using the knife, I found it difficult to cut through the crust, which had hardened to a rock-like texture. Instead of coming out as a neat slice, the pudding oozed off the crust and fell back into the pie pan. In an attempt to salvage the situation, I used a spoon to place the pudding onto the crust. Concealing my humiliation, I presented the messy concoction to my father.

Upon setting the chocolate pie in front of my father, he beamed with delight. Despite his efforts to cut through the crust with his fork being a bit of a challenge, he generously complimented me after taking his first taste. "This is amazing, Tara! With a little more practice, you’ll become a great baker just like your mom!"

His words washed over me like a warm embrace, infusing my heart with an unexpected surge of confidence. In that moment, I realized that it didn’t matter if the pie wasn't flawless; what mattered was the intention and love behind it. My father's encouragement made me see my culinary adventures in a new light—not as a competition with my mother or grandmother, but as a journey of growth and self-discovery.

I felt a deep sense of gratitude for my father’s unrelenting belief in me and an eagerness to continue honing my skills. Inspired by the experience, I embraced each cooking attempt with an open heart. In the years that followed, I experimented with new recipes and transformed my skills. My confidence blossomed, not just in cooking but in recognizing that imperfection was a part of the learning process. I began to appreciate my own culinary style, marking my territory as the next in line of our family legacy.

The evening turned into a cherished memory, one where laughter echoed through our country kitchen and our father-daughter bond strengthened. Years later, I would tell my own children the story of that clumsy pie, how every chef stumbles before they soar, and how a single compliment could turn a mishap into a cherished memory. And as I serve my creations, I always remember that the heart of cooking, much like the heart of our family, is not built on perfection but on love, laughter, and the willingness to try—one messy pie at a time.