Recipes That Tell Our Story

Mini Shoofly Pie Tartlets - Made for my recent book club presentation

Recipes That Tell Our Story

Every family has its secret recipes—the ones not just written on cards, but carried in hearts. For mine, those recipes stretch back through the generations, simmering in kitchens from Philadelphia row houses to Lancaster County farmsteads. Long before “farm to table” became a trend, my ancestors were living it—kneading bread by lantern light, canning peaches in August heat, and gathering every Sunday around a table that seemed to stretch with both food and love.

When I began writing The Philadelphia Matriarch, I found myself tasting history. I could almost smell Mamm Sara’s fresh bread cooling on the sill, or see Florence peeking over a flour-dusted counter as her Amish mother rolled out pie crusts with hands that had milked cows that morning. Food wasn’t just sustenance then—it was survival, comfort, and communion. A shared meal said what words sometimes couldn’t.

In our family, recipes have always been a form of storytelling. My Nana never measured, but every pinch of cinnamon carried a memory: of lean years made sweet with apple butter, of laughter echoing in the kitchen, of faith that somehow there would be enough. Her handwritten cards—now soft and stained with time—tell our history as vividly as any photograph.

At Thanksgiving, those stories come alive again. The aroma of roast turkey mingles with the buttery scent of my mother’s stuffing and the unmistakable tang of the cranberry relish that’s graced our table for as long as I can remember. Each dish arrives like an honored guest, bringing with it the faces of those who once stirred the same pots.

Cooking, to me, has always been a sacred act—one that connects generations, faith, and gratitude. It’s a way of saying we remember you to those who came before, while creating new memories for those who will follow. Whether it’s Florence’s shoofly pie, my mother’s creamed onions, or the pumpkin roll that has somehow become my signature dessert, these recipes are more than food. They’re the narrative threads of who we are.

This Thanksgiving, I invite you to pause before your first bite. Ask where that recipe came from—who taught it, who first served it, and what it meant to them. You may find, as I have, that the sweetest flavor isn’t in the sugar or spice, but in the story itself.

Because in the end, our recipes tell far more than how to make a meal. They tell how to make a life.

From Florence’s Kitchen

As shared in The Philadelphia Matriarch

Shoofly Pie (circa 1915)

“Flour, molasses, and a bit of good strong coffee—that’s all you need to fill a house with warmth,” Nana would say to make it, take 1 cup of flour, ½ cup brown sugar, and a lump of butter the size of a walnut—cut together until crumbly. Set aside. In a pie shell, stir together 1 cup of molasses, ½ cup hot coffee, and ½ teaspoon baking soda. Pour the mixture into your crust, then scatter the crumbs atop. Bake until the top turns golden and the filling bubbles just beneath—like laughter on a Sunday afternoon.

Served best with strong coffee and good company.