Lydia was an elderly widow who lived alone in the deep north woods, about a mile from my boyhood home. I chopped her wood, hauled her water, beat back the weeds, and generally did everything short of moving the mountain for her.
I was 16 when she turned 85, and she had me working like a mule—but I was well compensated with fresh apple pie on a regular basis. Now, some folks might’ve said I needed a better agent, but I figured it was a fair deal. After all, I didn’t die from the work, and the pie was worth the risk of it.
Most of Lydia’s world revolved around her quest for the perfect apple pie. As a young girl, she’d baked them in old potbelly stoves, feeding the fire with enough wood to make a grown man break a sweat, and over time, she upgraded to gas and electric ovens. It didn’t matter what kind of contraption she used; Lydia could bake a pie in the belly of a dragon, and it’d still come out perfect. Around those parts, folks knew her apple pies were a thing of legend.
I spent many a day after finishing my chores sitting in her kitchen, watching her work her magic. And eventually, after proving I could handle an ax and a shovel, I was promoted to part-time pie apprentice. She’d talk and muse as she baked, telling stories like each pie was a chapter in her own personal novel, and believe me, she had baked a lot of chapters.
She had a mantra, too—said it every time she rolled up her sleeves and set to work:
“Good Apples, Good Oven, Good Baker, Good Pie”.
Lydia believed in keeping things simple. That phrase stuck with me, probably because she repeated it so many times I couldn’t forget it if I tried. I spent hours learning to sort apples under her watchful eye, using sight, smell, feel, and taste—though let’s be honest, mostly taste. Lydia taught me that if you take care of the ingredients and respect the process, the pie practically bakes itself. Well, maybe not quite that simple, but that’s how it felt watching her work.
The only time she got serious was when she uttered her famous “almost there,” and the whole room would go still, as if we were waiting on the verdict of a pie judge. That’s when she brought all her senses to the final minutes of baking. Pull it out too soon, and the flavors would sulk like a child denied dessert. Leave it in too long, and you might as well make charcoal briquettes. Lydia knew the art of baking down to the second, and that’s no exaggeration.
I’m still spellbound by how Lydia could pull the fullest flavor out of any apple that crossed her path. She didn’t stick to one variety, either—sometimes she’d use one kind, sometimes two, sometimes more. She’d slice and sample like a pie sommelier, knowing just how much of each to add. Did her pies vary slightly? Sure. But here’s the gospel truth: each pie, no matter how she made it, was the best pie you’d ever tasted. Lydia had a knack for knowing her ingredients and how to coax out the best of them.
Our approach to coffee roasting? Well, that’s Lydia’s legacy, living and breathing (and brewing) through us...
“Good Coffee Beans, Good Roasting Equipment, Good Coffee Roasters, Good Brewed Coffee”.
We source the finest beans and spend countless hours tasting them—not a bad job, if you can get it—both as single origins and in blends. We use top-notch roasting equipment and our master roasters, like Lydia, have an eye for detail and a nose for nuance. The end result? Coffee that’ll make you rethink all the coffee you’ve ever had before. Good pies and good coffee don’t just happen; they’re made with care, patience, and a bit of art. And we owe a heap of that wisdom to a woman who baked her masterpieces in the woods.
And I’ll leave you with this thought: don’t even think about brewing that coffee until you’ve got a slice of pie on standby. Some things in life are just meant to be together.!!
Comments