Dear Friends,

I come to you today, doing what I threatened to do a few months ago: write an essay about why Patty Griffin’s “Making Pies'' is a strong contender for the best song ever written (that’s my opinion!).

Do you know the song? Here it is. Listen & come back, I’m in no hurry.

Did you listen? Do you feel indefinably sad and melancholic now? Good, that’s the correct emotional response.

“Making Pies” is the fourth track on Patty Griffin’s third album, 1000 Kisses. The album was released in 2002 by ATO records, after she was dropped from her first label and had to shelve the record Silver Bell (which circulated as a bootleg for years before being re-mixed and released in 2013—a perfect example of how record companies are dumb and will screw you over, but I digress). I mention Silver Bell, because that’s the record for which Griffin originally recorded “Making Pies.” According to one interview I read, the version on 1000 Kisses is the sixth recorded version of the song. Six! No wonder her voice carries a note of exhaustion.

Taken as a whole, 1000 Kisses sounds exactly like what it is—an artist coming into her prime. Griffin's sound has mellowed from the grungy rock of her second record Flaming Red (standout track “Goodbye,” one of the more folksy songs on the record. I recommend it if you’d like to cry today.), and the strident brassiness of her first record Living With Ghosts (which is so 90’s, but, like, in a great way). 1000 Kisses is one of the warmest sounding records that I’ve ever heard. There's a whole coterie of string instruments, vibraphones, and accordions, ably led by Griffin’s acoustic guitar and rich vocals. It's a sonic warmth that helps to counterbalance the sad-ass lyrics (let’s not mince words) with a glow of poignance.

“Making Pies” starts with a twangy minor riff on the guitar. After the first phrase, the bass comes in, plodding and shuffling exactly like a tired, sad woman walking to her job.

It's not far / I can walk / Down the block / To TableTalk / Close my eyes / Make the pies all day / Plastic cap / On my hair / I used to mind / Now I don't care… ‘cause I'm gray

Our narrator is a woman who has held a repetitive blue-collar job for a very long time. So long, in fact, that she’s gone gray while working there. She has passed from active unhappiness to resignation.

Did I show you this picture of my nephew / Taken at his big birthday surprise / At my sister's house last Sunday / This is Monday and I'm making pies

Yes, she has family—a sister, a nephew—but let’s be real. I know this woman. You know this woman. If she had her own children, that is certainly who she’d be showing us a picture of.

Thursday nights / I go and type / Down at the church / For Father Mike / It gets me out / And he ain't hard to like at all

This bit just kills me with how much it reminds me of my own grandmother, a woman who served at St. Bernadette’s Catholic Church until she was well into her eighties. The phrasing! How many old women has Patty Griffin interacted with? Because this sentence was lifted directly from one of them, I’m sure of it.

Jesus stares at me / In my chair / With his big blue eyes / And his honey brown hair / And he's looking at me / Way up there on the wall

In the second half of the verse, we go inwards, into personal, unspoken observations redolent with isolation and profound disconnection. Our narrator gets no comfort from the distant, youthful figure on the wall. He isn’t real.

And now we come to the heart of the matter:

Did I show you this picture of my sweetheart / Taken of us before the war / Of the Greek and his Italian girl / One Sunday at the shore / We tied our ribbons to the fire escape / They were taken by the birds / Who flew home to the country / As the bombs rained on the world

The ritardando here is so effective, as is the cymbal crash on the word “bombs.” The rest of the arrangement is understated, slowly stripping everything away until the only sound is Griffin’s lone voice, achingly beautiful, lowering into an earthy rasp. We understand exactly what happened without her saying it directly. She doesn’t have to. We now know the great grief of the narrator’s life. She has proof of a time when she was happy, a time when the world was expansive and alive with love and possibility. And now that world is gone. All that remains is a picture.

And yet.

You could cry or die / Or just make pies all day / I'm making pies

This is Patty Griffin’s genius. Her narrators are regretful, grieved, even baffled at the disappointing turns that their lives have taken, but the songs never wallow in it. Griffin’s characters are never pitiful. There is dignity here, even with the mundanity of the world rushing back in at the end. These are not sad songs for the sake of being sad songs. No, they are exercises in resilience, empathy, and love.

While other songs in Griffin’s catalog explore these themes, many of those tracks are from the perspectives of older male narrators who regret the choices they've made in their marriages and families (I’m thinking particularly of “Long Ride Home”, “Top of the World”, and “Faithful Son”). “Making Pies” remains my favorite in part because it's from the point of view of a woman. Old women (especially unmarried, childless, poor old women) are often overlooked, disparaged, and shoved to the outskirts of society. So many women have lived lives of quiet desperation, socialized to take care of everyone else, to refrain from complaining, to keep it all in. Patty Griffin centers this woman with such tenderness and such understanding, and it's all the more powerful because it's a cultural rarity.

I think it might be the best song ever written, although if you'd like to suggest other Patty Griffin songs for the title, I'm open to hearing your argument.

That’s all for today. Thanks to Ruth for talking through some of these ideas last night while I was wondering exactly what to write. See y’all in two weeks with a new song :)

xoxoxo, Lauren