Eileen’s peach pie is a favorite of all, including her. Her pie-making is generational from women who struggle to put food on the table. The tradition of cinnamon sugar sticks from leftover dough represents that nothing goes to waste. She spent years selling, celebrating holidays, and teaching her daughters the great tradition, pie making. She made these pies with love.

Eileen’s Story

Eileen Joan was born a twin on March 6, 1947, in Hailey, Idaho. She was born at the Haley Hospital on the 2^nd floor of the J.C. Fox Building. The building’s first floor housed a saloon (a location often visited by her father, Lawrence) and the First National Bank. The delivery was difficult; the twins were fighting to be firstborn.

My mother was born with battle wounds. She enjoyed early childhood with her mother and 3 brothers. The evenings, they would gather on the front lawn, so they could wave to her dad as he headed to the bar on the bus from the mine.

Moving to Orem

They moved from Hailey in 1953 to Orem, Utah. Eileen attended a Lutheran Elementary School. The home was not much relief from the nights of fighting and worry. There were nights worrisome with anticipation of her dad coming home from the bar, she worried that he might drive through her bedroom wall. The interrupted sleep continued with fighting.

The first time I sensed something was amiss at grandma Ruth’s home. Staying the night, I awoke to see him acting mean, yelling, and using bad words. I wandered to the scene to be rushed back to bed by my grandmother. She lay with me, rubbing my arm until I went back to sleep. The memory of that night was of her love and attention, not the commotion from my grandfather’s drunken behavior.

My mother met her husband, Dennis Ray at Orem High School. They married on September 9, 1965, in the Salt Lake City Temple. Her faith endures and provides strength in her life. She has 7 children, 20 grandchildren, and 10 great-grandchildren. They have been married for 60-years.

She faith work the primary president in the ward for years. Her talent in creating great lessons and activities for the children in the Provo ward was the best. She included those talents when teaching Relief Society and Sunday school lessons. Her love of the gospel and faith in her Savior runs deep.

Eileen is a true salesperson. As an Avon representative, she was awarded several the Mrs. Albee Awards for her success. She created great flyers and obtained contracts with local schools for bathroom supplies. She was always about the glamour before it was a social media trend. I remember teased wigs on Styrofoam heads in the nap room at Grandma Ruth’s; they were frightening.

She taught cooking classes for sisters in her ward. They enjoyed sharing her knowledge and experience was a community. This started with a Relief Society class, making pie crust. She provided not just recipes and tips but a connection.

Writing

Eileen loves writing, she writes personal books and journals regarding her faith and testimony in Jesus Christ and Joseph Smith. She has published poetry. A poem about her mother, Ruth:

For Her

Her walk isn’t as

Steady as it use to be,

But it really doesn’t

Even matter to me.

For when I look and

See her special smile.

It makes me know that

Everything is worthwhile.

She’s had many

Challenges and trials,

But came through them all with grace and style.

She’s always been there

By my side to counsel,

Love and Guide

For this I feel great

Love and Pride

Miscellaneous

Her quote: “Know who you are, Know what you do, and then Do it with Excellence”

She was all glam every day. Every Saturday was dedicated to nails, pedicures, and curling my long hair with the plastic pink rollers. This was done while watching boxing or Miss America. I always thought I was getting ready for the competition.

Her love of baseball led to many trips to SLC for minor league games, Little League games, and time with the Mariners in Seattle. Fall was filled with playoff and World Series games. 1981, we were set to watch the Dodgers take the series while sitting with Grandpa Lawrence in the hospital. We were a little loud for this setting and had to leave to watch at home. She loved throwing a pitch with pie dough as a baseball.

Birthdays we large events. She made all our cakes, they were elaborate and delish. The whole neighborhood showed up. Using the guests to create our number age. She would climb the old wooden ladder to capture the image.

The Woman I Am

2 tsp. salt

Placing the salt into the missing bowl, my mind wanders to the scripture, “Ye are the salt of the earth.” Thought so my maternal heritage carry me to women of faith, courage, endurance, and tradition.

My great-grandmother Jones’ great-grandmother Pettingill’s faith led her on a search for “Zion.” This search brought her to Hanns Mill, Missouri. Extermination of Mormons as the order of the state government. Mobs came into town killing men and raping women. Afterwards, she roamed from state to state to find a place that was welcoming to her faith.

Finally, she found a home in Illinois on the swamp of the Mississippi River. She built a home and had a garden. She enjoyed five years of freedom to practice her religion, before the mobs forced her into the wilderness. Walking across the frozen Mississippi River into land that was not a part of the United States, she wondered, “Where will my home be?”

For two years, she and her small children lived in a makeshift log cabin. Here she watched many die from cold, exposure, hunger, and childbirth. She carried for her turn to walk to the “New Zion,” Salt Lake City.

Finally, her day to walk to the west came. It was a long, hot dusty trail and she did not have enough food to feed her family. She carried on, knowing that God would provide.

Arriving in “Zion,” her family moved one hundred miles north. This place did not represent what one might consider “Zion.” It was colorless and lifeless with six months of winter and six months of summer. It seemed like very little would grow in these conditions, but the promise was that the desert would bloom.

2 ½ cups flour, lightly toss with salt until well mixed.

Slowly pouring the flour through my hands, I think how lucky I am to live in a time when I go to the store to pick from a variety of flour brands. I do not have to wait for harvest time.

With winter approaching, grandmother Pettingill did not have food for the winter. Others in the area had been collecting sago lily bulbs and grinding them into flour. Soon she sent her girls out looking for them to make flour for her cooking needs. The following year they had voluntary wheat growing in their field.

Great-grandmother Jones grew wheat on her farm. The tall stalks would sway in the Big River Country winds during the summer months. After harvest, she would store the wheat until it was time to grind for flour for her baking adventures. She made the best crust from the flour she grew.

¾ cup Crisco cut into the flour with hands until it forms small little beads

Cutting the Crisco into the flour is the most important step; this part gives the crust its flakiness “Feel is the key to making pie,” my mother taught me, ‘it cannot be explained.” I had to practice this until I knew how the mixture should look and feel.

As the dough squeezes through my fingers, I recall my failures. There was the one we could not even cut, or the one where we could see the unmixed Crisco, which caused the crust to have a horrible taste. These experiences left me feeling that I could not live up to our family tradition of pie making.

Great-great-grandmother Wake would make pies in the winter to sell; with nine children, money was in demand. Soon these pies were the in the Burly area. She and her daughters would sell 10-12 pies a week at the general store, unless it was a holiday, then the orders would come in as fast as a winter storm.

One Thanksgiving, when money was tight, my mother and grandmother spent hours making on hundred pies for my dad’s office. I did not help. Instead I spent three days making their life miserable. It was not long before I came to learn the value of motherhood and tradition.

My sisters came to visit my children and me for Thanksgiving one year. We decided to make pies for a local shelter. We spent three days throwing flour, burning pies, and getting on each other’s nerves. When we finished, we learned more than pie making. We learned that there are many who have far less, as we carried on the family tradition of sharing pies.

About ¼ cup of cold water slowly mixed into the bowl until dough feels sticky

I please my water in the freezer before I begin so that it is cold. Flowing water leaves its mark where it travels. It may not make a difference for generations of time, but it has a connecting force from the past to the present.

Water changes the small beads to a soft wet goo that sticks to my hands as I gently finish the mixture.

Great-great-grandma Wake would send her girls for water at the nearby Grape Creek that runs near the City of Rocks. The girls would always look at the rock formations, trying to figure what they best represented; sometimes they could be animals, other times they would be body parts. The girls would quickly make their journey in winter because the creak flowed with ice.

Great-Grandma Jones did not have to carry water from the local stream. She had the newest convenience of the day, a water pump outside the kitchen door. She could gather all the water sh needed without much effort.

Set dough aside. Prepare fruit of your choice

For this particular pie, our family and the dog make a trip to the local farmer’s market. The relaxed pace is more enjoyable than the local grocery store. Strangers share pleasantries as if they are life-long friends. Our senses are overtaken by the fried foods, bright colors of wildflowers, and different fruits and vegetables.

Meandering from booth to booth, we take time looking at different varieties of peaches from freestone, Elberta, and red globe. We spin the fruit around looking for the best color, and no imperfections in the skin. We hold the peaches up to our noses to smell. The scent indicates ripeness. We decide to try each of the three varieties to add a little bit of everything that peaches have to offer. We place the fruit in our canvas bags, but each keep a peach to savor on the way home.

Great-great-grandmother Wake’s orchard had the best fruit on Grape Creek. Her husband planted apple, plum, pear, and peach, along with a gooseberry bust, to ensure he could have pie every day.

My mother and grandmother always use Wilderness Pie filling from the can. Mom always said, “” These pies did not tastiest the same as Great-grandma Jones’ fresh fruit, but they are still good, and with ice cream on the side, they are a little sweeter.

Peel, Slice fruit. Make sauce. Roll out dough. Bake 50-60 min at 350

I place the pie dough on a floured surface and begin to roll the dough into a circular shape. Mine never rolls out to a perfect circle. It has a funny looking shape, but it will fit fine in the tin. I put the first layer in the bottom of a tin, toss fruit next, and place the top layer over it. Good, there is enough dough left over to make cinnamon-n-sugar sticks, a tradition I am sure that has been around for generations. Yu cut the remaining dough into stripes, sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar, bake, and eat.

Carefully I add the beauty to the pie. I scallop the edges and cut the moon in the center. The pie is sealed together with the love of generations of women. I put the pie in the oven to bake.

I am lik the pie, all the ingredients sealed inside. Changing the recipe changes what it will become. I do not want to the traditions I have learned from these women.

Removing the pie from the oven it looks perfect. The crust is a golden brown with the steam escaping the top and the smell of peaches is overwhelming. My family waits with plates, forks, and ice cream. I cut into the pie. The crust flakes and the filling oozes. It not long before the tradition of devouring the creation begins. What a tradition. These women are a part of my family. Their heritage give me tradition, faith, strength, love, endurance, and courage to be the Woman I am. Soon the pie is gone.

Published 2005 Salmon Creek Journal. @2005 This is based on true events.

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Filling:

Ingredients

• 4 cups sliced fresh or home-canned peaches (drained)
• ¾ cup sugar (adjust depending on peach sweetness)
• 2 tablespoons flour (or 1 tablespoon cornstarch, for a clearer filling)
• 1 tablespoon lemon juice or vinegar (adds tartness and balances sweetness)
• ½ teaspoon cinnamon (optional, but often used in Southern Idaho kitchens)
• 1 tablespoon butter, dotted on top before baking

1. Prepare the filling:
   • Mix peaches with sugar, flour (or cornstarch), lemon juice, and cinnamon.
   • Let sit 5–10 minutes to release juice.
2. Assemble the pie:
   • Pour peach filling into crust-lined pie dish.
   • Dot with butter.
   • Roll out the top crust and place it over the filling. Trim, crimp edges, flute edges, and cut vents (or make a lattice if you prefer).
3. Bake:
   • Bake at 425°F for 15 minutes, then reduce heat to 350°F and bake for 35–40 minutes longer, until crust is golden and filling bubbles.
4. Cool and serve:
   • Let pie cool on a rack to set filling. Best served slightly warm with cream or vanilla ice cream.

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Peach Pie History Cassia County Idaho

My family history is about pie for dessert or to stretch the budget in hard times. Selling pies at local general stores. They relied heavily on seasonal fruit and home preservation. Peaches were often home-canned or root-cellared. Eileen’s peach pie was baked by feel and familiarity.

📝 Notes from Cassia Tradition:

• Home-canned peaches were common—many women canned bushels of fruit each summer.
• Cinnamon or nutmeg was sometimes omitted to let the flavor of the fruit shine.
• Lard was the most typical fat until the 1940s when butter and shortening became more available.
• Pies were a staple dessert for both everyday meals and Sunday suppers. (Facts generated by ChatGPT)

Food is the great connector, linking us to our ancestors through recipes, memories, traditions, and love. It evokes the warmth of a grandmother’s kitchen and the comforting aromas of something simmering on the stove, speaking a language older than words. With every bite, we remember who we are and carry those stories forward, nourishing the future with the essence of the past.