Food Memory
Some of my richest childhood memories are tied to the smell of meat pies — those empanada-style hand pies filled with spicy, savory ground beef and pork that were a staple in our family and in our community. Making meat pies wasn’t a quick kitchen task; it was an event, a whole celebration of work, love, and togetherness.
It started the day before, when my grandmother and great-aunts would cook down big pots of seasoned meat, letting it cool overnight so the flavors could settle in just right. The next morning we’d pile into the church hall early, where the long tables were already dusted with flour and waiting for the dough to be rolled. The women moved together like they’d been doing this their entire lives — one mixing, one rolling, one filling, one crimping the edges just so. It was a choreography of tradition, passed down through generations.
We kids ran around underfoot, stealing scraps of dough to make our own little pretend pies, feeling proud to be part of something so big and so important. The whole hall was filled with laughter, gossip, storytelling, and that familiar hum of community — the sound of people who love each other working side by side.
They would spend the entire day making dozens upon dozens of meat pies. Some were frozen for our church fairs and fundraising dinners, others were sold to folks who came from out of town to get a taste of home to bring back with them. Those meat pies traveled far beyond our little corner of Louisiana, carrying our culture with them.
When I look back, those were some of the sweetest times — a whole community in motion, feeding each other, supporting the church, sharing stories, and handing down traditions to the next generation. Meat pies weren’t just food; they were love, labor, and heritage wrapped in a flaky crust.
