I Was Promised Pie

A search for pie in the Lone Star State

I had seen virtually nothing of the State of Texas before my husband and I moved here. My head was filled with stereotypes about this part of the country – cowboy boots, tumbleweeds, horses and – for me – pie. I imagined Texas to be a field of sun dried grass, a lone oak tree, a picnic table with a blue and white checked cloth and a gorgeous lemon meringue pie on top.

I was sharing this image with a friend before we moved. She considered my vision. “Hmm that sounds more like Kansas to me.” I was slightly dismayed. “Really? Have you been to Kansas?” She shook her head. “No. Never been to Texas either but it just sounds like Kansas for some reason. Maybe it should be a red and white checked table cloth.” I thought about it for a moment but I was not moved. The table cloth in my mind was blue and white, absolutely, and the pie was magnificent. I closed my eyes – rich flaky crust with a not-too-sweet, but perfectly tart, lemon filling with 6 inches of meringue on top. I could see it in my mind. “You usually don’t eat the meringue.” My so-called friend kept trying to pop the balloon on my pie fantasy, but it would not work. I kept envisioning the pie. She was right of course. I don’t really like most meringue, most bakeries don’t do it the way I like it, but it looks so amazing.

While I was in my pie fantasy my friend had been researching. “Apparently pecan pie is the official pie of Texas.” My eyes were still closed. “Hmm I like pecan, but I’m more of lemon pie, chocolate pie, sweet potato pie, coconut pie kind of person.” My friend kept at it. “Well they probably have those in Texas I guess. Oh there is something called buttermilk pie. That sounds kind of weird*. Hey, don’t they have a Marie Callender’s there? That pie is good.” I opened my eyes. “No they do not have Marie Callender’s. I will have to find another pie option. But I have faith. I will find pie or pie will find me.”

My friend put down her phone/research tool. “Are you guys really moving?” She was not happy about the plan. “Yes we are moving and you will come visit us.” Her shoulders sagged with an over exaggeration of surrender . “I am sad now – and hungry.” We hugged.

“Let’s go get some pie.”

Epilogue – A Search for Pie in DFW

SoCal has several chain places famous for pie – Marie Callender’s, Polly’s, even Coco’s. None of these have a presence in DFW. So I have hunted out pie shops. This has been an arduous task but I am willing to make the effort. My ever-growing list of favorites is below. Enjoy!

Judy Pie Grapevine. A small local pie shop. Dine in and take-out. Small pies, full size pies, slices and other goodies. German chocolate and coconut cream are delicious!

Swiss Pastry Shop Fort Worth. A local bakery and cafe. Full breakfast and lunch menu. Full size pies, slices and other fantastic desserts. Chocolate meringue and key lime are amazing!

Buttermilk Sky Pie Shop Colleyville/Frisco/Fort Worth/Dallas/Others. A regional franchise, take-out pie operation. Small pies, full size pies and other goodies to go. Seasonal mixed berry and buttermilk are yummy!

* If you have never had buttermilk pie, it sounds weird. It is not. It is delicious!

Norma’s Cafe Dallas. Dallas area diner chain. Full diner menu and Mile-High Pies. The chocolate peanut butter is delicious!

Tubin’ for Dummies

A while back we California transplants had been looking for a fun day trip or weekend excursion. I may embellish a bit but one of our adventures went sort of like this: My neighbor, the Texas angel, gave us a solid recommendation on an outing. “Y’all might go tubin’.” For those of you who don’t know what tubin’ in Texas is about – tubin’ (also tubing, toobin’) is the act of sitting in a tire inner tube and floating down a river for several hours with a couple of beers. “Y’all can try the Comal or the Guadalupe down by New Braunfels. The Frio is real nice but it’s all the way by San Antonio. Not sure y’all want to drive that far. Really it depends on which has the best water runnin’.”

I had to admit to the Texas angel that I had never been tubin’. She promised me it would be the most fun I would ever have. On the outset it didn’t sound very complicated and seemed like fun. I started doing some research and tried to figure out who had the best conditions. I looked at several water flow sites and got tons of hourly river data from the USGS. “Well it says the Comal is running at 295 as of one hour ago.” My husband looked at me. “Is that good?” I looked at the various sites I found. “I am not sure.” “Maybe you just need to call one of the tube outfitter places and ask.” I turned up my nose. I hate doing that. I want to just find the information I want without talking to someone on a phone. Every site I clicked sent me to another site full of data and conflicting info on what was optimal water flow. I clicked a few more times. Finally my husband just picked up the phone. “Yes, good morning. Um my wife and I are considering going tubing this weekend and are wondering what the conditions are like.” I could hear the woman’s voice on the other end. My husband was nodding his head and saying uh huh for a long while. “Ok, so does that mean the river is good for tubing this weekend?” There was more talking and nodding. “Uh sure I’ll make a reservation.” More talking from the outfitter. “Yes we want a tube for our cooler and yes I suppose we are both good swimmers. Thank you.”

He hung up. “Why do we need to be good swimmers?” I was getting a little concerned. “Apparently the river is running a little fast. They don’t recommend it for inexperienced swimmers. We can both swim. We’ll be fine. So the outfitter will provide tubes, pick us up at the end of the float and drive us back.”

“Wanna try a turn around?” I asked my husband. He shook his head. “Nope, it’s almost a 4 hour drive each way.” I kept poking around for a place to stay. It looked like there were a few camping options right on the river. I perked up. “We could camp!” He shook his head with a hard no. I filed that idea for another time. “There are tons of lodging options close by that have pick up service from the tube outfit…Ooh one has a gnome theme!” We finally found one we agreed on. I made a one night reservation in a local motel and found a good pack list – cooler (no Styrofoam), ice, drinks (no glass or cans), water (drinking only alcoholic drinks is a bad idea), snacks, sunscreen, water shoes, hat, sun glasses, bungee cords, ziplock bags for cash/cards. We familiarized ourselves on the river rules. We were ready to go!

We wanted to be on the river early so we left DFW at 5 am and made it there by 9am. (Of course we stopped at Buc-ee’s on the way but that is another story.) We checked into our lodge and dropped off our overnight stuff. There were a bunch of other people waiting for the outfitter bus. Before too long a beat up converted school bus pulled up. A young girl checked our names off on her clip board and welcomed us aboard with an “and you have a blessed day on the river.” My husband whispered in my ear. “Is that a good thing to say?” I responded casually. “Yes. You are probably thinking of bless-her-heart. That one is not nice.”

At the outfitter we got our wristbands and our tubes. We set up our cooler and made our way to the launching area. I have to say launching was way harder than I thought it would be. After two or three tries I managed to hoist myself into the tube while simultaneously wading into the water on slippery rocks. (By the way – by the time we were safely in the tubes with our cooler we were completely soaked which was sort of the idea being on the river… so not complaining. But take note – the only stuff that was dry was inside the zip-lock bag in the cooler. Oh and you will probably get river water in your cooler at some point. So cooler ice is probably not for putting in drinks.) Then we bunge-ed our tubes together and started our 2-3 hour float down the river.

The river was pretty crowded which was fine. The sun was hot, the water was wonderful and my beer was cold. I closed my eyes, splashed the water with my feet and relaxed. I felt pretty amazing. My husband struck up a conversation with another tuber next to him, a nice looking gentleman in a Yankees baseball cap. We are Texans now and previously from the other coast – so, go Red Sox lol. Anyway I ignored their conversation until they started talking about Water Moccasins. “So the snakes stick to the banks of the river mostly then?” I immediately pulled my feet into my tube. We were already on the river! Why would he say that?! Thankfully I went with the hard bottom tube rather than the open bottom style. The Yankees fan assured me it was very, very rare for someone to get bit, but try to stay away from the grassy banks just the same. Also, you can apparently tell a Water Moccasin from other snakes by the way they swim with their whole bodies on top of the water rather than just their heads. This was good news indeed. Now I would know when to panic. I wanted to flick this guy on the ear and then check all that info online but we did not have a smart phone with us in that zip-lock bag. The guy floated away.

My husband reached for my hand over the water. “Are you gonna be ok?” I thought about it and decided to relax. “Yeah. I survived how many years of driving the 5 fwy everyday in California, right?” He nodded and I put my feet back in the cool river water. I closed my eyes. He squeezed my hand. “You aren’t going to watch for Water Moccasins?” I shook my head. “Nah. He’s probably right. It’s probably a very rare thing to get bit. I am going to hope for the best and enjoy this ride.”

Plus I decided that the snakes around here are probably not Yankees fans. Bless his heart.

The 114

Since moving to DFW from California over ten years ago, I can safely say what gets me in trouble most is my mouth. Not to say that my mouth is a problem in particular (okay maybe it is) but I forget that we don’t necessarily speak the same language even when we are all speaking English. An illustration, complete with appropriate exaggerations:

One evening not long after moving here a number of neighbors were gathered in a driveway chatting with beers when one of the few Texas-born Texans, a blonde beauty with the voice of an angel, mentioned a fabulous retail opportunity a few towns away. Apparently there were overstock, high-end stuffs to be had for nearly 50 percent off and that was if you didn’t use a readily available coupon for an additional 10 percent off. One of the other transplanted ladies chimed in with a California smile “I’ve been there. It’s great. It’s right off the 114”. At this the Texas angel shook her head. “unhuh. 114”. Transplant lady repeated, a bit confused “Yeah, the 114”. Texas angel shook her head again “No such thing as ‘the’ 114. ’round here we just say 114.”

I thought about it for a long minute. After a few internal rehearsals I determined I had to put a ‘the’ in front of any highway number. It would never come out any other way – just like I could never give someone the last 4 digits of my phone number. I have to start at the beginning or I draw a blank every time. I had to confess to my new neighbors. “I can’t do it. I don’t think I can drop the ‘the’.” The angel looked at me with something like pity and put her hand on my arm. “Everyone will know right away you aren’t from Texas if you keep saying ‘the’ 114. We’ll still like you but.. you know…”

That night I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned. Finally I got up and stared in the bathroom mirror. I tried giving myself driving directions without using ‘the’. It was excruciating. I could feel my body and mind rebel as I tried to casually say “Head south on… 35 West and then take.. 820 to.. 183 Eastbound…” I hung my head. Each ‘the’ was hiding there – a silent pause like an invisible speed bump tripping me. I looked back in the mirror and remembered California. “Take the 22 west to the 405..” So easy – like slipping into a warm bath. But my golden coast days were behind me so I forced myself to keep trying. “Head south on… 35 west…” I heard my husband open the bathroom door. He put his hands on my shoulders. “You’re trying too hard, babe.” I sighed and he gave me a big hug. “So what if people know you aren’t from Texas.”

Over ten years have passed since that day. I still can’t give directions around DFW without using the ‘the’, but I can give directions around DFW and that’s what really matters.

From SoCal to DFW

I’ll be honest, moving to the Dallas – Fort Worth area of Texas from Southern California took a little getting used to. So much was different. Like why can’t people move over when they are going to turn right and what the heck is sweet tea? These were just a few of the questions that nagged at me as I made my first real trip to the grocery store my first week here.

I knew logically it would take time to adapt and I should just roll with the changes. However, it seemed like every few hours I started feeling like I was on another planet. I learned quickly that it doesn’t take a huge deviation from the normal to upend my sense of existential balance. I pushed my cart down the grocery aisle picking out the normal items, something I had done hundreds of times with no major epiphanies or surprises – coffee, bread, peanut butter, eggs, orange juice, vodka. Vodka… Vodka, where are you? I stared intently at the offerings in the beer and wine aisle certain there was some section I had overlooked. Maybe they group products differently? A very kind woman stocking shelves offered to help me and laughed softly when I explained my confusion. “Oh, Honey. We don’t sell liquor in the grocery stores in Texas. Y’all need to drive out for that.” She walked away and I grabbed a six pack of beer as consolation. At home I announced the vodka situation to my husband while unloading the bags onto the kitchen counter. “Apparently we have to drive to another county or something to get to a liquor store.” He nodded in agreement. The neighbors down the street had stopped by to say welcome and the vodka thing had come up. There was a long silence as I thought about our options. Most of the boxes were still packed and we could probably find a buyer for the house we just closed on ten days earlier, but were we the kind of people who would let something like this make us give up and go back to California? I can tell you – no, we are not. All of our underwear, every fork, every Tom Clancey novel we owned was in Texas. I had already given up my California driver’s license to the not-so-nice lady at the Department of Public Safety (DMV for all you Cali-people). As far as I was concerned that made us Texans and Texans are resourceful. So we got in the pickup truck, drove 18 miles (I exaggerate) to the liquor store in the next county and stocked up our oversized pantry – like Texans. These days, liquor stores are a bit more convenient and I have seen a fair amount of this state beyond the county line. All I can say is Texas is still full of surprises.