Written by Karen Graham
Today Rattlesnake Moon is full. The loquat trees in my neighborhood are bursting with fruit, ripe for eating. Fragrant sages are sending up tall stalks and beginning to flower. Creamy, white Elder blossoms are easy to spot in trees when driving by, and up close, you can see that some of the blossoms have turned into small, green elderberries, promising the end of summer fruit. In our front yard the Matilija Poppy continues to bloom, her fried egg flowers waving hello in the gentle breeze. Green algae covers shrinking creeks in the canyons and rattlesnake sightings are more frequent, causing a stir in local schools and parks. Days are getting longer, school is out, and my family’s rhythms are changing with the moon.
In my kitchen, I’m preparing this month’s full moon pie using loquats from a neighbor’s tree. As I pit and chop the endless pile of loquats, I think of the moon, round and bright, and all that is happening in its light during this moontime. I juice the lemon and grate the ginger and think of my oldest son who graduated from High School yesterday, a culmination of twelve challenging years. My hands measure flour and I imagine how proud my mom would be if she were still here to see him in his cap and gown. Tears roll down my cheeks as I cut cold butter into flour. I wonder if my family will taste my pride in this pie.
I started the tradition of baking a pie every full moon around the time my friend Shane and I began collaborating on a project. We were working on a cyclical calendar that included seasonal observations of our local ecosystems. As a teacher, I’ve observed that learning is most meaningful when there is a direct, personal connection. I wanted a calendar that would align what we do at Earthroots to what students are observing outside. The calendar would sync us with the natural rhythms of the Earth so that we can learn alongside them. For example, we would process acorns with classes in the fall when acorns are falling from oaks, or teach fire by friction during the wet season when its warmth is most needed.
The notes on our calendar reflect Shane’s vast knowledge of local flora and fauna, as well as the deep connection he has with plants, animals, water, and soil. Using these detailed notes, people can orient themselves to specific moontimes based on their own observations, and use the calendar to track time. One might say, The sagebrush is turning brown. I see green fruits mixed in with white flowers on yucca stalks. School is out. It is Rattlesnake Moon. Inspired by the indigenous perspective that time is cyclical, rather than sequential, and shifts according to what people need and what is happening on the Earth, Shane and I created the Kinship Calendar.
In an effort to build awareness in my own children during this time, I started baking full moon pies. I wanted my kids to notice the moon, its phases, and what was happening outside during each moontime. The promise of a home baked pie was the ticket. I can’t help but smile when my kids remind me that the full moon is approaching, an observation previously unnoticed. Before digging into each full moon pie, I ask my family to go around the table and share something they’ve noticed outdoors. A seemingly simple task, but as a mother of four, two of whom are teenage boys, I am always grateful when they are willing to share.
They saw orb weavers in webs during Sprouting Moon and heard chicks chirping from nests above our porch during Elderflower Moon. My son saw baby geese at the park near his school during Croaking Frog Moon, and showed us the photos he stopped to take. The “Dandelion Garden” my daughter planted was in full bloom during Matilija Moon, their yellow heads covering our weedy lawn. I noticed that the Yerba Mansa in our yard disappeared during Toyon Berry Moon, and was grateful to welcome it back at the end of Croaking Frog Moon. Each pie brought us together. A signal for us to take notice of Earth’s rhythms and of each other.
Long before I started our full moon pie tradition, I regularly baked pies for people in my life. I view pie making as a tangible act of love. I like knowing a person’s favorite pie and watching their face as they take the first bite. I make my sister a fresh peach pie each year around her birthday, depending on when the fruit is sweet and ready. My father in law loves a strawberry rhubarb pie, a sweet reminder of the pie his mom made him so many years ago. My husband also loves a rhubarb pie, but true to his nature, any pie I make makes him happy.
Pies aren’t easy to make. They require effort and focus. As my mom would say, “You can’t halfass it.” The dough especially, can’t be rushed. I’ve tried experimenting with food processors, melted butter recipes, and other shortcuts, but to achieve a truly flaky crust, the butter must be carefully cut in by hand. When I make a pie for someone, I think about them as I cut the fruit or work the dough with my hands. If I allow myself to settle into the moment and give the pie my full attention, the result is a pie made with heart and care.
Once my son told me that one of my pies tasted angry, and he asked me what I was doing while making it. Despite his seemingly rude comment he managed to polish off the slice of apple pie on his plate. Of course, he was absolutely right. I made the pie after a long day at work, in between making dinner, helping with homework, cleaning, and whatever else I was juggling that evening. I remember slicing the apples on the cutting board while lecturing one of my kids, the hard whack of knife on wood, accentuating each stern word. I hurriedly measured the flour before cutting in the butter. The result was a dry dough that barely held together. He could taste my irritation in that pie.
Some pies are like that. Rushing through them, forgetting to slow down. But most of the time, I sink into pie making and relish in the opportunity to use my hands to make something to share. I try to reflect the bounty of each moontime in the pie, and to be grateful for the abundance of food. During Acorn Moon I made a pumpkin pie with an acorn crust, using black oak acorns gathered, dried, and stored the year before. Our lemon tree was covered with lemons during Full Creek Moon, so I made two fresh lemon pies. My kids were less than thrilled by the savory pie made of wild greens during Crows With Twigs Moon, but loved the pie I called, “Best I Can Do Right Now Pie” during Sprouting Moon. The pie was a quickly made instant pudding pie with a vanilla wafer crust. It was all I could muster as the first holiday season since losing my mom crept in. The artificial sweetness must have disguised the grief in that pie. Or maybe my kids were just used to the taste by then. The pie offered a little relief from our shared grief and empty space in our hearts.
That pie, like today’s loquat pie, is a vessel of love. I use my thumbs to crimp the edges of my son’s graduation pie. I place it in the oven and dry my eyes on my apron. It is a commencement pie. A grieving pie. A comfort pie. A birthday pie. A full moon pie. Life’s challenges wax and wane. Some months, I’ll make an amazing pie, while other months, a store bought treat will be enough. Whatever the day brings, we will circle the table, the moon will be full, rhythms will bring us comfort, and we will eat pie together.
Karen Graham
Karen Graham is the Director of Curriculum and Instruction with Earthroots Field School.
Download Earthroots Kinship Calendar for FREE, purchase a printed poster, or download a template to make your own Kinship Calendar here.
