I was sad about the announcement on FB that this year’s pie sale would be St. John’s last, but I am also sad to say I wasn’t surprised it was ending. I had watched the people who carried it for decades.  I am sure they were done… and there are simply not enough people to pick up the whisk and carry on.

St. John’s was one of our first touchstone places in Ketchikan.

During the interview weekend, we spent two spectacular days exploring Ketchikan.  There was a reception for the borough attorney candidates at Annabelle’s, where I met people who would become close friends.  Someone loaned us a car, and we drove around the island in awe of the massive cedars, towering hemlocks, and rocky beaches.

I remember saying to Scott, “We’ll be lucky if they offer you the job.” Which they did.  And he accepted. We had six-week-old Gracie with us, and we loaded into our little borrowed Subaru and attended St. John’s that morning. The sermon… get this… was about “taking a leap of faith”.  I felt like it spoke to us, and that is exactly what we did – took a leap of faith, leaving friends, family and familiarity,  and moved to Ketchikan.

Fast-forward a few months. We were settled in Ketchikan and regularly attending St. John’s, where the subject of the pie sale came up during Sunday morning announcements. Until then, the Fourth of July meant riding the train to the family cabin, fishing in hip waders at 11 p.m. under the midnight sun.  I’d never even been to a Fourth of July Parade before, so I didn’t really understand the scope of the pie sale. After two weeks of requests during church announcements met by stony silence, I thought… Maybe I could do this. I tentatively raised my hand, and people seemed to be relieved and grateful. I was handed a 2-inch-thick folder with a long history and step-by-step instructions for running the pie sale.

The next Sunday, like any good teacher, I put a butcher-paper sign-up sheet on the wall of the fellowship hall. 

No. One. Signed. Up. For. Anything.

I began to get nervous. I confided my nervousness to a fellow parishioner, who assured me that people would bring pie. People will help set up. They also assured me that the pie sale “ran itself”

The night before the pie sale, before drop-off time, Scott and I opened the file folder and found the map of how to set up the tables.  Practical Scott looked around and was convinced he could improve the traffic flow. He dragged tables around this-way-and-that.  He was sure we could fit a lot more people in here now.  

Great. We could check “table set up” off our list.

Except no, we couldn’t. When the church matriarchs arrived, pies in hand, they took one look around, glanced at each other and (I could almost hear the tsk, tsk, tsk).  

“No, this just won’t work.” 

“It won’t do.” 

And something I would come to hear a lot…. “We don’t do it like that.”

Scott sheepishly tucked his head and moved the tables back where they belonged… according to the map. 

Sign-up sheet or no, a mega workforce showed up, and the pie sale went seamlessly.  I never counted, but it felt like well over a hundred, maybe two hundred pies streamed in, and the post-parade crowd streamed out the door and down the block.  I kept busy, serving, pouring coffee, cutting pie after pie after pie  “just like so”.

Scott and I have terrible attendance at St. John’s, but that aside, if we are here, in town, we make pie.  

Apple Of Her Eye Pie.

A recipe from my favorite cookbook.  A book that automatically opens to that page when I pull it out of the cupboard.  A cookbook that is broken and battered. Pages are loose and flutter out; they are out of order.  A favorite.

Looking back, I realize the pie sale never really “ran itself.”  It ran because dozens of people quietly showed up year after year. They baked. They sliced. They poured coffee and lemonade. They swooped in and cleared dishes… and yes, they rearranged the tables back where they belong. 

Apple Of Her Eye Pie