Summary
WASHINGTON - I spent many summers at my grandmother's hip. I followed her around the kitchen of her tiny wood-frame home, so close to the train tracks that the house would rattle long after the freights had passed.
The South Carolina sun was too hot for us to venture out at midday, so often we would spend the time snapping beans, shucking corn, shelling peas. And every couple of weeks we would make my grandmother's lemon meringue pie.See the full content of this document
Extract
Make Grandmother's Pie with Pride
My job was to roll the lemons. "Roll 'em good," she would tell me as I pressed them back and forth. She would sprinkle flour across the table, shape her dough, press it out with a rolling pin that ...
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