Superior pie-baking runs in my family though I didn’t inherit the skills my dad’s cousin had, nor those of my mother, her sister, or their mother.

My loyal daughers say they love my pies, and my granddaughter says mine are the world’s best! They’re OK, sometimes they even border on good, but they’re never as good as those made by my female ancestors — Cousin Pauline, Mother Neva, Aunt Dorothy, Grandma Agie.

My pies look like rabbits nibble the edges, then hop across the top.

The recipe on the Crisco label is my guide, although I add a dash of baking powder to the flour. Dad married another excellent pie-maker after my mother died — the baking powder was Martha’s hint.

Though I roll the crust firmly, gently, it never ends up a soft smoothed circle like my mom’s did. No matter how carefully I place the crust in the pan, I have to patch it with scraps of dough pasted in place with ice water. Every November, in spite of threatening to buy our Thanksgiving pies at the local bakery, or to use store-bought crusts, I always return to “from scratch.”

Last weekend, I decided to make the annual July Fourth blueberry pie to honor what would have been my dad’s 105th birthday. I used my little tin pie pan, halved the pastry recipe, but almost doubled the berries. I made my usual botched mess of the crust. But into the oven it went with foil wrapped lightly around the edges until the final few minutes.

I set the timer and headed to my desk. Two hours later, I returned to the kitchen. Why was the oven light on? OMG! MY PIE!

Yes, I’d set the timer, but I can’t hear it unless I’m in the kitchen! I expected to see a charred mess when I yanked the door open. It was slightly browner than usual, but not burned. I let it cool, stuck a little American flag in it, and we had it for dessert after our hamburgers/potato salad/corn-on-the-cob feast.

Best darned pie I’ve ever made! Martha Stewart would pooh-pooh me, but I think I’ve found the secret to a good pie: stick it in the oven and fuhgeddabodit.

xxxx’‘Art by Mrs. Steitz’ web grab.

As I sat down to try to write a jolly Christmas post yesterday, there was a huge swath of snow and blustery weather swooping across the middle of the country and up into Canada. That stretch of North America has looked a lot like Christmas for several weeks already.

Here? Well, I had the windows open and my fa lala was more off key than ever.  But, within the hour daugher Carolynn and  husband Bill arrived from the little village in upstate New York where we’d lived for seventeen years, me ever glorying in the deep, cold, snowy white winters, husband Peter, not so much.

In “Deck my halls, please” I groaned and humbugged about my severely diminished, ghostly spirit this year.  But more than an hour past my bedtime on the shortest day of the year, if I could have gotten onto our rooftop I would have shouted, “I FOUND IT!  IT’S BA-A-ACK!”

We’d all just watched a wonderful Christmas movie.  Believe me when I say it’s better than any version of Dicken’s “Christmas carol,” “It’s a wonderful life,” “Love, actually,” “Christmas Story,” “Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer” or any other holiday movie you can name.

“Becoming Santa” (2011), is destined to become a classic, mark my words.  I found it buried deep in the “Documentary” heading on Netflix, but a quick search on-line showed that it’s available on iTunes and Amazon as well.  Treat yourself, stop what you’re doing, watch it now!

Writer/actor/star, Jack Sanderson, is a young man — mid-forties is young to me — who lost his Christmas spirit after his mother died a few years ago.  She was an enthusiastic Christmas-lover, so her death, followed not long after by his father’s passing, threw Jack into a tailspin. Then, he was inspired by a photo he’d never seen of his father playing Santa for neighborhood children.

He decides to become a Santa too, to give back, in other words.  He has his hair and beard professionally bleached and styled, gets fitted for a suit and goes to Santa school,  a film crew in tow to record the experience.

This movie has everything — laughs, sweet tears, adorable children, inspiration, dedication, hope.  What “Becoming Santa” does not have is violence, mayhem, war or foul language,  I could’ve watched it right through again, it was that good.

Jack seems determined to become Santa, but occasionally he expresses doubts.  He goes to Santa school to learn the basics — always say “children” instead of “kids,” for instance, and always “Ho, ho, ho,” never just one “ho” nor more than three.

You wonder as he wanders, musing, reflecting. Will he last, or won’t he?

There’s a lot more to the film than Jack’s own quest — Santa experts, historians, professional Santas weigh in as well. Two common threads tie it into a beautiful package: a genuine love for children and an understanding of how important Santa is to them. The “sneak and peak” segment near the end is tear-inducing, but in a good way.

This morning I’m revitalized, imbued with spirit and holiday glee.  All I need now is seasonal — make that North Pole-like — weather.

Carolynn hadn’t packed a snowball in the large cooler Bill lugged inside yesterday, but it was filled with all-important special ham and Polish sausages.  She did bring a big carton containing dozens of special cookies, and the astounding surprise of homemade peppermint marshmallows her friend Robin sent along for us.

Believe, believe!

My mother loved early morning picnics, walks in the woods, fishing on a riverbank, small social gatherings.  She kept a spotless house, she sewed, she gardened, she canned, she baked, and all while taking care of my dad and me.

Back in the day it was customary for friends and family to drop in unannounced for an evening or a Sunday afternoon.  She always had a snack she could offer, or fresh pie and a cup of coffee to serve.  She was never caught short.

But she loathed going to fancy dos — the dances organized by dad’s fraternal organizations or a PTA benefit. Oh, she’d dutifully refurbish an old dress for the occasion or make a new one. And she’d try to do something with her flyaway blonde hair ahead of time even though the home perms she’d used left her frizzed. To make her rough hands presentable, she’d slather them with Vaseline and wear white cotton gloves to bed. Inevitably futile.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Put me in grubby jeans, hand me a trowel and I’m happy.  Drop by for tea and I’ll welcome you with open arms and dirty hands.  But tell me I have to go to a party or a reception and I’ll come up with some excuse.

I remember one evening when my parents were getting ready to go to a dance that was to be preceded by a cocktail party at the home of friends.  Dad was impatient.  He loved those evenings and couldn’t wait to go.

Mom was fretting and making faces at her reflection as she fiddled with her hair and makeup. “I hate to go anyplace before I go anyplace,” she fumed.

She’d gotten all “gussied up,” as dad called it, but by the time they arrived at the main event her baby fine hair would look like cotton candy, her dress would be mussed and, most likely, she’d have a runner in her stockings. Worse, her lipstick might stray into the tiny lines around her mouth or there could be a bit of green between her teeth from the spinach dip that was all the rage then.

So much anxiety and they hadn’t even left the house!

I laughed then, but now I know.

To go someplace before you go anyplace, for someone who doesn’t even like to get ready once, is torture.

Like mother, like daughter.