Finally, A Slice Of Gooseberry Pie

My Mother did something extraordinary for me this Thanksgiving, in addition to the ridiculously consistent awesomeness that is my parent's turkey dinner.

For as many years as I can remember, my Grandparents would drive from their small town in Southwest Iowa to our bigger, yet still small town in Southeast Iowa. They would come for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, occasionally deviating from this schedule, but they were with us enough that the fact that they're no longer part of the holidays is still a bit different.

And it's been almost 10 years since they both passed away.

Their presence wasn't something that stands out as "special" in the sense of an annual meeting filled with joy and memory inducing moments. In fact, there were times when their presence could be somewhat annoying as they frequently bickered, creating a holiday environment that was not up to my ideal of simply getting along for a few days out of the year.

Not that it our holiday was filled with drama or tense arguments; it wasn't. No, our Thanksgivings were just like everyone else's, filled with over-eating, Detroit Lions football games that nobody paid attention to (unless the Packers were playing them), and the eventual nap on the couch or recliner.

It was just the fact that they were there that makes these holidays without them such a weird feeling.

One of the things that my Grandmother used to do was to bake a Gooseberry pie and bring it to my parent's home for the festivities. My uncle would collect a few Gooseberry's in a forest near his place and he would give them to my Grandmother. She'd freeze them and use the tart berries for pies that generally made their appearance around this time of year. She knew that I went crazy for them, so it turned out to be a special thing for me. I mean, when was the last time you've seen a gooseberry pie at your bakery?

My mom got the recipe from her, but since my uncle died as well shortly after my Grandparent' passed, so did our gooseberry connection. They're not a popular berry-for most pie connoisseurs they are too tart-which means that even around the farmer's market circuit in Iowa they're a rare commodity.

Finally, my mom came across an older woman selling fresh berries at one of the last farmer's markets of the season in Des Moines. She had one bag of gooseberries left, and my Mom snagged it for $8. I'd seen green gooseberries listed from some dealer in Oregon for something like $30 a pound, which seemed ridiculous to me. After all, these were the fruits of some prickly shrub that dots the forests of Iowa, a plant that's frequently left for the birds and wildlife to munch on. They are not looked upon as a cash crop, at least not in the same way that those potheads in Oregon must view it with their Internet pricing.

With those berries, she brought out my Grandmother's recipe-the same one that calls for less sugar than most people would prefer, which makes it the perfect companion to a scoop of ice cream. While everyone else fed on apple, yours truly was able to secure the first slice of the gooseberry. It was a delicacy that hadn't crossed my lips in over a decade, and it immediately conjured up an emotional response that can only be described as comparable to the dish served up in Ratatouille.

The crust was nicely done and the berries stayed secure in their tapioca foundation. My grandmother would have been proud of her as I recall a few occasions when her own pie allowed the gooseberry to spill out after slicing the first piece, causing her to apologize for not putting enough tapioca mix to congeal the gooseberry innards.

I never complained. You never look a gift horse in the mouth and you never speak of any inadequacies of a pie's quality, particularly one that's baked by your grandmother.

Because you never know when your next slice of gooseberry pie will come next.

Loudon Wainwright III - T Shirt

I’d never heard of Loudon Wainwright III before one summer afternoon when I was riding my JC Penny five-speed bike back home from my friend’s house.

It was only about five or six blocks away, and being eleven years old meant that every block was passed with great detail. There could be loose change afoot, an un-smoked pack of cigarettes, or the occasional cassette lying about.

On this day, I spotted something blue in the gutter.

It was an 8-track tape of Loudon Wainwright III’s T-Shirt album. It bore the blue Arista record logo. It’s strange, but even then I had an opinion of record labels, and Arista Records certainly wasn’t one that I took seriously.

The only thing I knew them from was the label that brought us such favorites as Barry Manilow, so this Loudon Wainwright character must be equally shitty. After all, who would throw out a perfectly good 8 track?

The awesome Craig record player in my bedroom could also play 8 tracks, of which I had a couple-but the majority of my collection was vinyl.

T-Shirt was in such poor shape from its time in the gutter that I almost didn’t play it for fear that it would get tangled up in my player. I finally relented, figuring that a broken 8-track player wouldn’t be missed much.

Besides, I couldn’t pass up a chance at hearing a free album.

It played fine, or at least as fine as an 8-track can play and I was surprised at enjoying what I’d heard.

It wasn’t until later when I made the connection that this artist was the one responsible for “Dead Skunk,” a novelty song that I vaguely remembered hearing on the radio a few years prior to my 8-track discovery.

Much of that was because T-Shirt was different than Wainwright’s folk, singer/songwriter period. Arista had evidently dolled Wainwright up to become a more rock oriented singer/songwriter artist, something certainly designed to spice up Clive Davis’ still young upstart label.

And while I now understand how divisive this album must have seemed to Wainwright fans at the time and, yes, I can completely hear the difference in quality between this and his earlier material, with no reference point available, T-Shirt sounded pretty good for a found record.

It started with “Bicentennial,” a sarcastic view of our country’s 200th birthday which was taking place at the time of T-Shirt’s release. My discovery of the record came after the bicentennial, and I didn’t quite get the sarcasim at that age. All I knew was that Wainwright declared Jack Ruby to be wonderful in the song, and I couldn’t understand why he thought so highly of the dude that assassinated Lee Harvey Oswald.

You can probably guess why I was more of a fan of “Dead Skunk” at that age.

I also didn’t get the references to Shakespeare, (then) New York City mayor Abe Beame, and recently deported South Vietnamese Prime Minister Nguyen Van Thieu, all of whom were featured in various songs in T-Shirt.

I did like the song about Charlie Manson (“California Prison Blues”) and I totally dug the cautionary drug tale funk of “At Both Ends.” I still think that song would be a great cover song for some band who wouldn’t have a problem singing the line “Who needs love? Who wants romance? I wanna eat your underpants!” with a straight face.

But the highlight is the bombastic “Prince Hal’s Dirge,” an epically delivered ode to drunken belligerence complete with the good advise of “If I vomit, keep me off of my back.”

I followed Wainwright’s advice on that one many years afterwards.

I also tried to keep in touch with T-Shirt as best as I could, or at least until the 8-track player/stereo was pitched for a more appropriate component system. It remained elusive until I began recalling various lines from this long-forgotten album.

Are there better places to start with for a glimpse of Loudon Wainwright III’s talents?

Absolutely.

But for me, my experience started with this discarded record presented for free on an obsolete format.

It sounded good enough to keep searching his catalog, which is saying something about Wainwright.

Even when people think he’s not good enough, he’s still better than most.