Meet My Grandma... Kind Of

I just finished making a traditional Canadian pork pie—Tourtière—for a ladies’ meeting tomorrow. The theme is “Meet My Grandma.” We’ve been asked to bring food, photos, and stories that remind us of our grandmothers. Things they passed down. Things we carry forward.

The truth is, I never actually met my grandmother. She was gone before I was born. I don’t know the sound of her laugh or the way she wore her hair, except from a few pictures of her I've been able to find. But I do know that in my French Canadian family, Tourtière was a staple. It graced the holiday tables, warmed the kitchen on winter nights, and quietly stitched its way into our family’s fabric.

I haven’t made one in about 15 years. Honestly, I thought it would be easier—muscle memory and all that. But let me tell you, it was a lot more work than I remember. Let’s just say I had to sit down twice and question my life choices. At one point, I found myself negotiating with the pie crust like it was a hostage situation. Maybe that’s just age talking, or maybe it’s because when you’re younger, you don’t realize how much goes into the things you take for granted. The chopping, the stirring, the seasoning, the slow patience of it all. It turns out tradition isn’t fast food.

Still, something happened as I leaned over the stove today. As much as I sweated over it, it felt good. Familiar. Like reaching back through time and grabbing hold of something solid. The smell of the meat and spices—cinnamon, cloves, allspice, a hint of nutmeg—carried me somewhere else. It brought back scenes I didn’t even know I remembered. No, I never met my grandmother. I don’t know the sound of her voice or what kind of stories she told. But I do know the scent of her kitchen—or at least the one passed down through the hands and aprons of my family. I remember my aunt's (her daughter) kitchen, the clatter of pots, a well-used wooden spoon, someone humming in the background. I could almost see the older women in my family moving around me—quietly competent, sleeves rolled up, eyes kind but focused. Women I barely knew, and yet somehow, miss deeply.

So tomorrow I’ll show up with my Tourtière, maybe a couple of old black-and-white photos, and a pie dish full of memories that aren’t exactly mine, but still belong to me somehow. I’ll bring my pie and place it on the table alongside dishes from other's grandmothers. I may not have stories from my own lips to share, but I’ll have this—warm, flaky, a little lopsided, made with love. A dish that speaks where words fall short. A small way of saying, I came from somewhere. I come from someone.

Bon appétit, Mémère. I hope I did you proud.

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