My mother hated Mother's Day. I was never quite sure why. It just frustrated us to no end. No matter what we did there was always that faint look of tolerance just peeking through her pleasant facade.

My mother was a creature of habi.t, exquisite taste and perfection. She didn't like disruption. She liked things just so, she knew the best way, and she enjoyed getting things done. Yes, she also liked being in control. On Mother's Day, she had to relinquish the helm, not something that came easily to her.

I finally realized that I should indulge my mother's fine habits, do it routinely and perfectly, something she could come to count on For Mother's Day, she came to look forward to an extra large container of L'Occitaine's ultra rich body cream from me. A few weeks before she would casually mention she was running low. That's how I knew it was a success.

For her birthday, at some point I hit upon just the right shade of Chanel lipstick. The following year, a few weeks before her day, she mentioned she was running low and what a pretty color. Another success.   

Christmas took me ages to conquer. It was only a few years before her death that I hit upon the mother lode, so to speak! Pumpkin pie.

My mother was famous for her pies -- apple, blueberry and mincemeat along with chocolate cream and butterscotch pudding pies. Her crust was made with lard. She rolled it incredibly thin and it was always flaky and tenderly crisp. 

Once, not all that long ago, while discussing my Thanksgiving menu with my mom, I mentioned pumpkin pie and she just kvelled.

Oh, I love pumpkin pie!

You do? But you've never made it, Mom.

Your father doesn't like them.

(That tells you a lot about my mother.)

Oh gosh, Mom, I make them all the time -- bourbon pumpkin, maple pumpkin, brandy spiced pumpkin, and more.

So that was it. I could check her Christmas present off my list every year. 

I still remember her face when I brought the very first pumpkin pie I made for her. She was so delighted. I put it in the kitchen pantry, just where she said to put it.

Later that evening I happened to pass through the kitchen where I found my brother-in-law literally devouring my mother's pumpkin pie.

Put that pie down, Thom, that's my mother's.

It's delicious, he said, as he continued to eat it directly out of the pan.

Thom, stop it, I'm serious. I made that for my mother. It's her pie.

Too bad, it's too good. 
He continued to eat.

His wife/my sister came in.

Barbara, tell Thom to stop eating Mom's pie!
I was really getting irked at this point.

Oh, what kind is it? She asked.

It's the pumpkin pie I made for Mom! 
I was nearly shouting.

Pumpkin is Thom's favorite, she said sweetly.
I wanted to wring her neck.

I don't give a freak about Thom or what he likes. That is my mother's Christmas present. Put it down right now or else I am going to go and tell Mom right now. That's her pie.

(Can you imagine this? I must have been at least 45 years old, threatening to tell on my sister! How ridiculous! Well, at least it worked.)

He finally put it down.
It was more than half eaten.

Thom loves pumpkin pie, she said incredulously as if he were some long suffering soul being deprived of a mere morsel.

I don't give a flip, I made that for Mom. Stay the hell away from it. You're a pig.
I took the pie and covered it.

After they left the kitchen, I hid what was left of the pie and went and told my mother where to find it and why. She laughed and winked at me.

The next afternoon I overheard Thom say to my mother as I joined them:
Mrs. Scotti could I get you a cup of tea?

Oh yes, that would be lovely, Thom, thank you.

And I'll cut you a nice slice of pumpkin pie, Mrs. Scotti, now where is that?

With a lilt in her voice, my mother exclaimed, Oh Thom, dear, I finished that this morning!

Thom muttered and sputtered as he poured the tea and put the cup down next to her. He left the room in a sort of huff.

When he was out of range, I said:

Did you like the pie, Mom?

Loved it! It is absolutely delicious. I'm savoring every bite. Now get me a piece, it's right up there on the shelf under that bowl.

Miss you, Mom.

There is a lost piece of New York City that a disparate group of people have been searching for. Seemingly each person has been on a lone quest to re-experience a particular, coveted taste sensation. These folk have such an affection for Nesselrode Pie -- from a young rabbi in the Bronx to a well-heeled octogenarian on Fifth Avenue to an old-time Queens boy about to celebrate his birthday. And they have each been on a long and almost-fruitless hunt for Nesselrode Pie.

As the proud owner and chief baker of Pie Country, it was just impossible to resist my rabbi's request last November for Nesselrode Pie. She gave me plenty of notice and a plea I could not refuse. For her wife's upcoming 40th birthday, she had her heart set on it, and not a one could be found. Please make one for us.

She had taught both of our children, officiated at my father-in-law's shiva and helped us build our first sukkah.

Could you say no?

My first thought - what the devil is Nesselrode Pie? 
A quick online search provided the answers and just two recipes. Just two recipes! Most other pies have dozens if not hundreds of varying recipes that flood the screen with a simple search. Not Nesselrode Pie.

Nesselrode Pie appears to be indigineous to New York. From what I've managed to read, it was brought to popularity by Hortense Spier, the premier pie baker for restaurants in New York City, in the 40s and 50s. Evidently all things with chestnut puree have been named after Count Nesselrode, a 19th century Russian diplomat credited with negotiating the Treaty of Paris after the Crimean War. Don't ask me what the chestnut puree connection is all about!

Nesselrode Pie or Nesselro Pudding is simply a vanilla custard, aka Bavarian cream, spiked with rum and then folded with chestnut puree set in a buttery pastry shell and topped with some chocolate shavings. Some versions have candied citrons throughout the custard, others have marons glacee. We also add a lovely layer of fresh whipped cream.

It is a shame that no restaurant in New York City currently serves this. It would be easy enough - all they have to do is contact [email protected]. We deliver.

I’ve been quiet this month with blogging. That’s because I’ve been busy making cookies and birthday cakes. The cookies are for Pie Country. Gingerbread men, sugar rocket ships and mittens and snowmen. Black-bottom coconut bars, brownies,  blondies, pie babies in a variety of flavors, oatmeal chocoate chip cookies, peanut butter classics and snickerdoodles. And more.

The birthday cakes are for my family. I make a birthday cake every week in December.I mailed one to my daughter in Ohio in the first week of December. She said it was yummy. Five days later I made a Tarte Tatin, as I have done every December 10th for the past umpteen years. That one was for my dude, my main squeeze. I should make it more often. This year’s came out with a really deep caramel color all over.

And in just a few hours, when the clock strikes midnight, my young boy … who thinks himself so mature and grown-up … and honestly, he is quite capable (though still tender) … will turn 15. He is 6’4 ½”. He has grown almost an inch in just the past month. I can tell when he’s about to grow, he has more of an insatiable appetite than usual, and he gets slightly chubby. Then all of a sudden my neck has to crane even further to reach that cheek with a kiss.

For my amazing young man, I made an extra large, extra chocolatey chocolate cake with my signature chocolate ganache. Before I light the candles, I think I’ll whip up some cream to go alongside. He’ll like that.

On Wednesday, he’s leaving to go on a 10-day exchange program with his youth group. He’ll be gone during Channukah, he’ll be gone during Christmas. It’s going to be lonely here without him. He has such a big presence, such a big, wonderful affect on all of us. His sister is trying her hardest to finish up her college work so she can see him before he leaves. 

We all hope and pray that our children will grow up to become … fill in the blank … and then when they do, we wish they were still children in our arms.

Have a wonderful trip, my son, just don’t forget to come home.

My mother was the most elegant woman I have ever known. She would not like my referring to her as a woman, though, she was a lady through and through and she led quite a charmed life.

She met my father when she was 17 on her first trip to Europe – a high school graduation present from her uncle. It was 1932, not many 17-year-olds traveled to Europe in grand style in those days or in any style at all. My mother actually missed her high school graduation, leaving school early to “go abroad”.

When she was introduced to my father, a medical student at the University of Rome and an officer in the Italian Army, she was not swept off her feet, as she wasn’t fond of the way he combed his hair. I can’t imagine not being swept away by my father, for he was the most charming man I have ever known.

Three years later, he moved to America, settled in Providence, my mother’s home town, learned English while a resident at a local hospital. Once established, he courted my mother, asked her to marry him three separate times until she finally said yes when he kissed her. 

Theirs was a love from storybooks. They were devoted to each other and bore eleven children together. That was some kind of love! Oh yes, can you imagine! Eleven. I’m the only one of my siblings who never saw my mother pregnant. I am their youngest.

A few weeks ago a lovely lady from the Upper East Side called me to place a pie order for Thanksgiving. I was thrilled, it was my first order. She had seen my ad in MUG (Manhattan Users Guide), this online e-newsletter and called to order a pie. As we were chatting, she mentioned that Thanksgiving this year falls on November 24.

My heart stopped. I had to hold back the tears that suddenly welled in my eyes.

Today is my mother’s birthday, she would be 97 years old. And not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.

Every time I pick up my rolling pin I can feel my mother close. And with each round of dough I rolled this past month, I saw my mother sitting in the family kitchen at the long wooden table by the window. She wore that nutmeg brown cashmere polo sweater and a camel-color A-line cashmere skirt, her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck, the diamond earrings she always wore and high heels. She sat on a stool with her legs crossed and a crisp, fresh dish towel impeccably draped over her lap. In front of her on the table was her pie board with a handful of flour.

It’s an image that is crystal clear and always makes me smile and cry at the same time.

We kids would climb up on the table or on the nearby dishwasher and sit and talk to her while she made her pies and rolling out the dough with seemingly little effort. She was known for her ultra-thin, very flaky pies, amongst many other things.

When I roll my pie dough, I usually get some on my face and somewhere else. Not my mother. I’m not sure how she managed to do that, but she never had a spot of flour or anything else on her.

For Thanksgiving she would always make 2 apples and 2 mincemeats.

It wasn’t until my mother was in her 80s that I found out her favorite pie was pumpkin. Why don’t you make that, I asked her. Oh your father never liked pumpkin, she said. From then on, I’d make her a pumpkin pie for her birthday.

Over the last two days I must have made about 97 pumpkin pies sweetened with Vermont maple syrup and spiced with freshly grated nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of ground cloves. In my heart I made each one of those for her.

Happy birthday, Mom.

_

Going to the farmers’ market is one of the highlights of my week. I always buy way too much, especially at this time of year. How can anyone resist those big beautiful cauliflowers or the last-of-the-season bright red cherry tomatoes, dark green string beans or one of two last ears of corn?

The other day I bought way too much. Everything looked just so beautiful! (Thank goodness over the years I have switched my passion for expensive shoes to fresh local produce.  It’s hard to lug all this bounty home in a pair of YSL heels!)

So there I was in my kitchen staring at all this stuff and wondering what I could make. Everything was very ripe, perfect right now, some things definitely wouldn’t keep for long.

I’ve been consumed with thinking about pies and pies and more pies. Of course, silly woman, let’s make a pie. Wow! I had actually not made a savory pie in ages. That was the answer.

Into the pot went cauliflower, sweet potatoes, onions, spinach, cherry tomatoes, corn, a bunch of different herbs like parsley, dill, basil. Then I sautéed some Italian turkey sausage from DiPaolo in a little bit of left over red wine and threw that in. 

Making pie dough has become second nature to me. This one was speckled with a generous grinding of black pepper. I rolled it out and covered the dish with it, dabbed a bit of milk on the top, slit a few steam holes and popped it into the oven.

I wish I had a picture of my boys eating it. Pot pie! Yum! They didn’t even care what was in it, the idea of pot pie put an instant smile on both of their faces. And then when they dug in, well, it was pretty quiet at the dinner table that night.