Who doesn’t love pie?
So much less of around these days than in the olden days. Pie crust seems a lost art, but there are nooks and crannies where you find pie. Gramma’s house. Books by Joyce Maynard. And the Vault in Harrisburg, Oregon.
Twenty-five years ago, on our first big bike ride, Daddy and I stopped in Harrisburg, Oregon, for lunch while riding between Eugene and Corvallis along the Willamette River. I asked a passerby for restaurant recommendations.
“There’s a Carl’s Junior’s,” she pointed one way. “Or a Roundtable Pizza,” she pointed another way. “Or if you want to go all out, you could go to the Vault.”
“Which way is The Vault?”
Located in two former banks—the pay station is a teller’s desk—the nice folks there let us bring our bikes inside. And we had a fabulous big homey meal. Topped off by an even more fabulous piece of Marionberry pie. Turns out the Marionberry–a type of especially-tasty blackberry– was developed by the USDA and the university in Corvallis.
Yum. Yum. And Yum.
Following year we did the same bike ride and went back to the Vault for lunch. That’s one thing about Daddy. If you go with him to a good place, you are going to go there again. BUT they were out of Marionberry pie. The waitress gave a complicated excuse, the day the pie lady comes in and such, but it didn’t matter. No pie. Sigh.
The NEXT year we went on the same ride, with my sister Sabrina that time. And of course we stopped at the Vault. Tried not to get my hopes up.
But then the waitress said, “Are you the man who called from California to reserve the pie?”
That’s my thoughtful father, thinking ahead to make sure I got my pie.
This morning I texted the math teachers in the family—all three of them—to wish them Happy Pi Day.