By Michael Patrick O’Brien
I am not well known for making blueberry pies. In fact, prior to July 3, 2017, I never made even one, which is why I am not certain what prompted me to try to make two of them, with vodka as a secret ingredient in the crust, for a recent Independence Day celebration.
Maybe it was because of the Utah Trappist monks. Their friendship with their LDS neighbors was so legendary (see http://www.standard.net/Guest-Commentary/2017/04/13/Huntsville-Abbey-Our-Lady-Holy-Trinity-monastery-monks-LDS-Church-saints-Ogden-Valley-column-OBrien) that when their seventy year old monastery was about to close in 2017, the nearby town of Huntsville invited them to be grand marshals in the annual July 4th parade. I wanted to be there to see them honored, and homemade blueberry pie seemed to fit well within the Americana format of that small town celebration.
Maybe it was to show off in front of friends and family. I had invited lots of both to meet me in Huntsville, wave at the monks during the parade, drop by the monastery afterwards, and then have a picnic at the Perception Park campground on the south fork of the Ogden River. It was an unusual way to celebrate the big day, and I knew they each would masterfully create delicious contributions to the festivities. So, I had to keep up with the Joneses (we actually had a Jones family with us that day).
Or maybe it was just the thrill of the baking challenge. The recipe I chose to use had three or four distinct production phases and would take about eight hours to make, perhaps longer if I taste-tested too much of the vodka. Go big or go home, right?
The day before July 4th, I charged in. At the two hour mark, I had several blueberry stains on my shirt. After four hours, my wife glanced in the kitchen and, between hovering clouds of flour dust, seemed horrified at the stack of dirty pie-related dishes. Six hours passed, and pies seemed to be evolving beyond oozing blueberry mash (and vodka). After eight hours, two somewhat haggard-looking, but aromatic, pies sat cooling on the counter.
The next day, I lovingly and carefully loaded and secured the pies in the car for the 50 minute drive to Huntsville. The journey was relatively uneventful, except in my excitement to get there I zoomed up a mountain road, causing one car in our travelling convoy to overheat as it tried to keep up with my lead foot. The stranded friends in the overheated car waved us on, and said they’d catch up soon. We all made it to the tree-lined park in Huntsville just in time to see my friends the monks pass by, loaded in a horse and buggy, returning the many waves, smiles, and shouted greetings from their neighbors.
Afterwards, we met one of the monks, ninety year old Father Patrick, at the Abbey store. He hobbled about, hugged each one of my friends, blessed everybody, and in parting told jokes like “What’s the difference between a monk and a monkey? A monkey has a tail!” Most of my friends had never been to the monastery or met a monk. They were charmed, and seemed genuinely grateful I had dragged them 50 miles from home to do both that day. It turned out to be the last July 4th (after 70 of them) that Holy Trinity Abbey would be open.
We finally made it to the picnic site about 2 pm. The place I had reserved was designated for the disabled. Oops. I hope I did not mess up anyone’s plans that day as a result. The campsite manager let us stay anyway, so apparently it was not in too big of demand. We walked, talked, cooked, and ate. We watched the 1 and 3 year olds play in the water. We watched the 19 and 20 year olds sit in the river on lawn chairs, which was an odd but quite entertaining activity. And then we ate blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream ala mode. The pies turned out to be quite edible. I had three pieces.
I never expected to observe the 241st birthday of our nation with a parade of monks and a grueling, vodka-infused shift of blueberry pie production. I doubt these various activities all shall ever converge again, which makes the day they did all the more memorable. One year later…the monks are settled in their new home at St. Joseph’s Villa in Salt Lake City (two of them, in fact, are settled in the quaint cemetery adjoining the old Abbey), Huntsville will honor new grand marshals, and most of my friends and family will be pursuing other patriotic plans.
As for me, my plans are not yet set, but I think I do still have some of that vodka left…
