My grandmother raised my sister and me, and we called her “Mutha.” As a child raised by her grandmother, I didn’t realize at the time how much a good home-cooked meal was for the soul. Especially Mutha’s blackbottom sweet potato pies. Those sweet potato pies were a pure delight, along with the rest of her cooking. She was the true original version of what it meant to be a grandma, always making me feel safe, important, and well fed. Those big Sunday dinners were the best of all. She would do lots of the prep work the night before. Letting my sister and me play assistant chefs. I loved it. We would have to pick the collard greens, then cut up celery, bell peppers, and the onions that were used for the cornbread dressing. Although the main course was always a well-seasoned pot roast or baked chicken, cooked to a perfect brown crispness. Side dishes were usually green beans with potatoes or black eyed peas, and there was always hot cornbread in a cast iron skillet. Thinking back, all those aromatic scents brought a sense a warm love, joy, and calmness to me. It was like a warm hug in every bite. Especially those blackbottom pies.
Most kids think October is the month for Halloween and pumpkin carving, but I always thought of it as the start of soul food season. The big yellow mixing bowl was out and ready to blend up all the sweet ingredients. Six large, sweet potatoes, one cup white sugar, brown sugar, nutmeg, four eggs, two sticks of butter, Carnation milk, and pure vanilla extract. Mmm, mmm, mmm . . . my eyes started dancing.
Early on those Sunday mornings the five foot two woman would stand in front of the kitchen window above the sink in her quilted pink buttoned-down housecoat and start scrubbing, then peeling the sweet potatoes. She could peel a entire potato with a paring knife and not break the skin even once. They looked like curly fries. I tried to help but she said I was peeling the whole potato away. (I’ve since learned her technique.) Once all the potatoes were peeled and washed they were dropped into a large silver pot that was already heating on the stove. After cooking the potatoes, she drained the water from the pot. With the potatoes still steaming, she would start to use her masher and go to work. Once everything was cooled and mashed, she’d head over to the accordion doors leading to the pantry where a white linen bag was hanging on the wall inside. This was the “sanky bag.” It held all the main ingredients for baking goodness: the sugars, nutmeg, cinnamon, pure exacts of vanilla and lemon, banana, and a couple of cans of Carnation milk, and a glass measuring cup. She also would stash extra sweets, like boxes of Jell-O, honey buns, peppermint patties, and butterscotch candies, in case we had a sweet tooth. If there is one thing Mutha could do it was multi-task, whether it be cooking while doing the laundry or keeping an eye on us. She would also be on the yellow telephone with that extra long cord allowing her to walk from one end of the kitchen even down the hall, laughing with her daughters and gossiping about the stories on television.
I loved being in the kitchen when she was baking. She would let me preheat the oven, which was always set to 350 degrees. She’d tell me to grab the crusts from the freezer and open them. She would make no fewer than six to eight pies at a time. Now some of you might be lost at the thought of frozen pie crust, but if you made as many pies as Mutha did, you, too, would take a few short cuts. However, she always made homemade dough for her juicy peach cobbler, but that’s a whole other story and recipe.
Okay, back to the pies. She’d mix all those ingredients and have me lay the pie pans on top of the stove four at a time and, with a fork, poke holes in the bottom crust. This allowed the heat from the stove to thaw the crust. After making a dark brown sugar and melted butter mixture, she’d add a teaspoon of her secret ingredient. She would spread the thick almost black sugar mix coating to each pie pan. Now we had the black bottoms, so it was time to add the sweet potato mixture. The crust was always deep dish. She couldn’t stand a shallow pie any more than she could shallow people.
The crust was filled with the perfect amount so they would spill over during baking. After completing the first batch, we’d fill another four piecrusts. Then all eight went into the oven. She never used a timer. She just knew when to peek in the stove and pull them out. To me, it felt like eternity. Thinking back, it was about forty-five minutes to an hour. Why so many pies for one dinner? Mutha was the kind of grandmother that never turned away a person if they were hungry. She showed her loved through cooking. So she made sure to have enough for one of her ten kids to take a black bottom sweet potato pie and leftovers home if they wanted. There was plenty to go around.
When I think about making those black bottom pies, I remember why I loved them so much. Once those pies were in the oven. It was time to get the kitchen and dining room set. She would have me get a tablecloth out get all the plates and silverware. She never used paper plates. There would be two crystal pitchers, one filled with sweet iced tea and the other with red Kool-Aid with lemon slices. Also, at the end of the table would be a cake plate with a yellow cake and chocolate frosting and white plastic pie racks. By the time the meats were plated and the beans and collard greens placed in a serving bowl, Mutha would be asking for a dish rag or potholder to get the pies out of the oven. With the pies placed on the stacked pie racks, the combination of a savory and sweet aromas put everyone in a heartwarming mood, and that could only be created by Grandmother Mutha’s pies.
Oh, I miss her so. She would always say, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.” Boy was she right. She was glue that held our family together.
Even after all the intervening years, I cherish those memories of her and those special pies. I loved them so much that I had to create a fictional short story called “Blackbottom Pies,” which is in the September/October issue of Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. I hope you enjoy the recipe and read it the story.
Trace Evidence 