Eileen’s peach pie is loved by many, including herself. Her pie-making roots run deep, passed down through generations of women who knew what it meant to stretch ingredients and still bring comfort. Even the leftover dough was never wasted, rolled out, cut into stripes, sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, and baked into sweet sticks, a small tradition with a big meaning. Eileen spent years baking pies to sell, to celebrate holidays, and to share with her daughters, teaching them that food made with love carries stories worth remembering.

Eileen’s Story

Eileen Joan (mother) 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 Lawrence (grandfather) and the First National Bank. The delivery was difficult; the twins were fighting to be firstborn.

My mother’s twin, Ernest, was born with battle wounds. She enjoyed early childhood with her mother and 3 brothers. The evening was them gathering on the front lawn, they would wave to her dad as he headed to the local bar from the mine after work.

Moving to Orem

They moved from Hailey to Orem, Utah, in 1953. Eileen began attending a Lutheran elementary school, but it offered little escape from the tension at home. Most nights were filled with arguments and anxiety. After work, Grandpa would often head straight to the bar. At night, Eileen would press her hands together in her own special way, walking down the hallway, gently tapping the wall as she whispered prayers for her father’s safe return.

The nights were filled with worries that her dad would drive through her bedroom wall. The anticipation grew as it was close to when her dad was coming home. The interrupted sleep continued was a living hell, with fighting and commotion. This caused her confusion, especially the promises not kept and the hurtful words shared. She grew up in a tough world. She has stories that would haunt you.*

She is always, to this day, worried about what everyone thinks. Growing up in a Mormon community, not being a part of the faith, living a life that was wrong and evil, it was always a concern what the neighbors thought, with an alcoholic father.

The first time I sensed something was amiss at Grandma Ruth’s home. I stayed the night at Grandma Ruth’s when I was 7 or 8. I awoke to see him acting mean, yelling, and saying bad words. Uncle Jerry (mother’s brother) was sitting in the chair with his legs swinging over the arms. 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.

Getting Married

My mother met her husband at Orem High School. They married on September 9, 1965, in the Salt Lake City Temple. They were married for 60 years. Her faith endures, providing strength in her life. She has 7 children, 20 grandchildren, and 11 great-grandchildren.

She was the primary president in the ward for years. She created many great lessons and activities for the children in the Provo ward. She has taught the Relief Society and Sunday school. She has a deep love of the gospel and faith in her Savior.

Career in Sales

She was a true salesperson. She sold Avon and was awarded 10 years of the President’s Club-Annual 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 the sisters in her ward. The women enjoyed sharing their knowledge and experience. Mom provided not just recipes and tips but a sense of community and heritage. She passed peacefully at home with her children and spouse of 60 years, on December 1, 2025.

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

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

By: Eileen Winger

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 are 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 rickety wooden ladder to capture the image.

Between Candlelight and Memory: In Loving Memory of Eileen Winger

December 1st, the first day of the last month of the year, arrives as a moment of reflection, gentle closure, and quiet gratitude. It is a season of change, hope, magic, and togetherness. A season between seasons, where gatherings, celebrations, and memories spill over one another like warm candlelight.

For you, this time of year was always a tapestry of joy: pie-making, dough-throwing, and laughter echoing through every corner of our home. Setting the Thanksgiving table became a ceremony of love; nut cups carefully placed, names written on place cards, fine China glinting softly under the dining-room light, and perfect slices of jellied cranberries lined up like small red jewels. As a child, this meal stitch pure elation into the fabric of my heart. It opened the door to winter’s welcome and the first spark of Christmas magic.

You taught us the wonder of Santa, giving, music, and Christ. December meant hours decorating the tree, wrapping gifts with patient hands, and wandering the charming streets of Sugar House. Store windows glowed with scenes of Christmas — miniature snowy villages, twinkling lights, and gifts nestled in soft cotton snow. That was where the wonder began each year.

Choosing the perfect Christmas tree was never rushed. It took days, sometimes, as you ran your fingers through branches, searching for one that felt just right. We would leave it behind for later pickup, and when we returned, it stood dusted, like winter snow a forest had offered it to us personally. Once home, the tree transformed into a shimmering centerpiece dripping with sparkling silver tinsel. Later, in the new house, we spent hours together poking colorful Christmas fabric into Styrofoam balls, creating handmade ornaments that still hold your warmth in my memories. Recent years brought teal and pink splashes to your holiday palette, and the many nativity scenes, especially the wise men made in Relief Society on the gold round table, told stories of faith.

This season between seasons also meant long drives beneath star-pricked skies, admiring homes glowing with brilliant lights. These drives wrapped us in the lasting spirit of the holidays, brightness, hope, and togetherness.

Family gatherings brimmed with music, shared holiday food traditions, and games that filled the house with laughter. On the drive to Idaho, the NORAD Santa Tracker played like the soundtrack to our excitement, while you and Dad made certain we’d arrive before Santa. You taught us to look up with wonder, scanning the night sky for his sleigh and dreaming of catching the glow of the Christmas star.

As Christmas Day crept closer, your extraordinary baking skills filled the air with sweetness. Candy dishes welcomed everyone with divinity, fudge, cookies, and your meticulous candy-cane pastry. Dinner was always spectacular: savory ham, creamy deviled eggs, your mother’s warm homemade rolls, and your great-grandmother’s pies: apple, cherry, mincemeat, pumpkin. Eileen’s pie was a flavor that lingers beautifully in my memory.

Pies were your gift to the world. You shared that gift generously — with your children, your ward, your husband’s co-workers, and anyone fortunate enough to visit. You taught monthly cooking classes for the women in your ward, where pies had their own place of honor. Your eyes lit up when someone overcame their fear of cooking. You inspired confidence, creativity, and pride in so many others. You passed down history through recipes, your hands, and passion woven into each tradition.

These moments were holiday coziness, conversation, warmth, and shared history. These traditions became the heartbeat of our family, etched forever into our lives and carried now into the lives of our children and grandchildren.

Your children often returned home to savor the traditions you created — the familiar smells, the warmth, and the steadfast love that filled our home. You left behind a rich and living heritage for the generations who follow. You inspired awe and wonder in your grandchildren.

They are learning the family recipes and rolling out cinnamon rolls side-by-side with Ellie and Maverick. They learn the family’s sweet treat secrets. Ellie always worried about eggshells in the dough. Maverick loves sprinkling the cinnamon and sugar on the rolled dough. The best is eating this family treat with milk.

Clemintine and Crimson listened to Raggedy Ann stories passed through three generations. They were lifted into magical worlds through storytelling. They often requested calling you and loved sharing.

We all cherished Jolene’s first Easter egg-dying adventure, a memory bright with color and delight. You regaled all the grandchildren with stories about family Easter fun and fashion.

They still ask about you. They remember your kind words, your gentle voice, your deep love, and your laughter that seemed to lift every room. They remember the hours of reading, of imagining,  and adventuring with you.

You gave us wonder.
You gave us excitement.
You gave us love.
And best of all —
You gave us laughter.    

Your legacy lives in every tradition you touched, every recipe you shared, every story you told, and every heart you warmed.
Your memory will continue to glow, soft, bright, and everlasting, like the Christmas lights you loved so much. Eileen J. Wake Winger March 6, 1947 – Dec. 1, 2025.

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 carries 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 was the order of the state government. Mobs came into town, killing men and raping women. Afterwards, she roamed from state to state in search of a place 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 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 enough food for the season. Others in the area had been collecting sago lily bulbs and grinding them into flour. Soon, she sent her girls out looking for seg0 lily bulbs to make flour for baking. 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 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 the 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 lifelong friends. Our senses are overtaken by the fried foods, the 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 taste 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.

---

---

Peach Pie History, Cassia County, Idaho

My family history is all about pie for dessert or to stretch the family 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.

What is your favorite family food memory? Share here using #4chionstyle #4chionfoodie

A Taste of Family History on Our Lifestyle Blog

*Ray, D. (2025, February 25). Oral statement [Dennis Ray.MP4].

** Palomin, T. (2005). This is based on true events. Salmon Creek Journal.