Pie Birds and Love Notes: Baking as a Language of the Heart

There’s something about pie that just says home. Not the store-bought kind with the perfect crimped edges and the glossy labels—but the kind your mama or your granny used to make. The kind with a little flour on the countertop, maybe a thumbprint in the crust where someone pressed too hard, and the aroma that floats out of the oven and wraps around your soul like a quilt on a chilly morning. Listen in and find out why the Pie Bird sings, and how baking a pie is like sending a little love note to those we love!

Apple Pie with Cheese Crust

Transcript

Episode 170 - Pie Birds and Love Notes: Baking as a Language of the Heart

Welcome back to the porch! I’m so glad you joined me to listen to the last episode in the Baking Bliss segment. This week we’re going to sweeten the deal just a little bit. 

There’s something about pie that just says home. Not the store-bought kind with the perfect crimped edges and the glossy labels—but the kind your mama or your granny used to make. The kind with a little flour on the countertop, maybe a thumbprint in the crust where someone pressed too hard, and the aroma that floats out of the oven and wraps around your soul like a quilt on a chilly morning.

Now I know some people get excited about fancy desserts, but if you really want to say “I love you” without using words, bake someone a pie.

Growing up, pie meant something. It wasn’t just dessert—it was comfort, celebration, and sometimes even an apology. Aunt Dot was my version of a grandmother, as one of mine was gone before I was born, and the other lived over a thousand miles away and I never had a chance to get to know her. So, Dot just seemed to take on that role when it came to baking. She had a way of slipping all her tenderness into that crust. You didn’t have to talk about your troubles at her table; they were already understood, baked into every bite. She didn’t need a therapist's couch—just a rolling pin, a pie plate, and a little time.

One of my friends had a grandmother who loved baking pies. And there was always that little ceramic bird in the middle of her fruit pies—the pie bird. I didn’t know what it was for when I was little. I just thought it looked cute, sitting there with its beak wide open. I later found out that the pie bird has a purpose—it lets the steam out so your filling doesn’t bubble over and ruin the crust. But honestly, I now believe it did more than that.

That pie bird was like a little piece of magic. It stood there in the middle, taking all the pressure, letting the heat escape so everything else could stay tender and intact. Have you ever known someone like that? Someone who absorbs all the hard stuff, the chaos, and lets everyone else keep their peace? Every family needs a pie bird. I think I’ve been one a time or two. And I bet you have, too.

Baking is full of these quiet metaphors, if you pay attention. You start with simple things—flour, sugar, butter, a few eggs—and somehow it turns into something rich and meaningful. Kind of like relationships. Kind of like life.

I remember the first time I tried to bake a pie on my own. I was in my twenties, had just bought my first home, and was feeling a little too big for my britches. I had watched Aunt Dot do it a thousand times, so I figured I didn’t need to follow a recipe. I just tossed some apples in a bowl, sprinkled what I thought was the right amount of sugar and cinnamon, and slapped the whole thing into a crust that was more patchwork than pastry.

That thing came out of the oven looking like it had been in a car accident. The juices ran over the sides, the bottom crust was still soggy, and the apples hadn’t cooked all the way through. A friend of mine was being very generous when he told me it was delicious.

Now, I know he was lying. But it was the kind of lie you tell when someone’s trying hard and you don’t want them to give up. And to this day, that pie’s still my favorite one I ever made. Not because it was good, but because it was honest. I poured every bit of myself into that messy little pie. It was like sending a love note out into the world, written in butter and sugar.

That’s the thing about baking—it’s a language all its own. You bake for people you love. You bake when you want to say “thank you,” or “I’m sorry,” or “I’ve missed you.” You bake when words won’t come, when the day’s been too long or too heavy, and you just want to offer someone something warm and good.

Sometimes we forget that food isn’t just about feeding the body—it feeds the spirit, too. When you hand someone a slice of pie, what you’re really saying is, “I see you. I care about you. You matter enough for me to spend time making something just for you.” And in today’s world, where everything moves so fast, that kind of gesture is rare. But it shouldn’t be.

I like to think about the old ways—not just because they’re nostalgic, but because they were rooted in something deeper. People didn’t just throw a frozen meal in the oven. They made biscuits from scratch, they simmered sauces for hours, and they baked pies with love. Meals were about more than fuel. They were moments. They were memories in the making.

One of my favorite things to do is bake with kids. If you’ve never made a mess in the kitchen with flour flying everywhere and sticky fingers dipping into the filling, you’re missing out. Children don’t care if the crust is perfect or if the lattice is even. They care that you let them help. That you laughed when the flour hit the floor. That you let them lick the spoon.

I once baked a pie with the child of a friend of mine. Somewhere in the middle of teaching her how to roll out the dough, she looked up at me and said, “This is the best day ever.” Now, it wasn’t the pie that made it the best day—it was the togetherness. The act of spending dedicated time together, of slowing down, of creating something from scratch, of making a little memory that we could both hold onto.

And isn’t that what love looks like, when it’s lived out? Not the big, flashy gestures. But the small, steady ones. The pie left on a neighbor’s porch after a loss. The handwritten recipe passed down through generations. The crust crimped just the way Mama used to do it. These are the quiet love notes we bake into life.

I’ve still got Aunt Dot’s Apple Pie with Cheese Crust recipe – which, by the way you can find a copy of in the show notes. It’s the one I make most frequently, and everyone loves it. The recipe card is brittle and yellowed with age. But when I pull it out, I swear I can hear her telling me to be gentle, and not to overwork the dough. It’s almost as if she’s in the kitchen with me. That’s the kind of thing you can’t buy in a store. That’s legacy.

I’m ready to branch out and start baking more than just chocolate, pecan, and apple pies. I want to learn the art of blueberry, cherry, and peach. And the first step of the lesson is finding one of those pie birds to place in the center.  Not because I will always need it – Dot’s Apple Pie calls for a lattice work top crust - but because I like what it represents. A little thing in the middle of the storm, letting out the pressure so the rest can bake just right. A reminder that even when life is hot and bubbling over, there’s something—someone—making a way for us to hold it all together. And if I’m really lucky, I may find one in an antique store – one that is already holding the memories of someone else’s pie baking adventures. I may not ever know the stories, but I’m willing to bet I’ll still be able to feel the warmth and love that’s written into every single one of them.

The next time you bake a pie, think of it as more than just dessert. Think of it as a letter. A little message that says, “You’re loved.” And whether it’s flaky and golden or a little lopsided with a soggy bottom, it still carries that same sweet message.

We don’t have to be perfect to show love. We just have to be present. We have to take the time to turn off the noise, preheat the oven, and put our hearts into the simple things. Like pie.

Because in the end, it’s not the recipe that makes it special. It’s the hands that made it. The stories it tells. And the love that lingers long after the last bite is gone.

So, pull up a chair, pour a cup of coffee, and pass the pie. Let’s keep telling love stories with flour and fruit and flaky crusts. Because baking isn’t just cooking—it’s connection. And every good connection starts with a little warmth, a lot of heart, and maybe even a pie bird or two.

That’s the language of the heart. And it’s always worth speaking.

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Thanks again for stopping in. I will see you next week on Living a Simple Life with a Back Porch View. And while you are waiting for the next episode, grab that glass of refreshment, pull up a rocker, and sit back for a while. It’s time to relax and enjoy.