I’m humming, almost singing just under my breath. I’m happy. It’s my son’s 28th birthday. He’s coming home from New York for the weekend. I want to make him something special. Not a birthday cake. Rhubarb pie—his favorite.

Everything is on the kitchen counter: red stalks of fresh rhubarb, sugar, cinnamon, butter, flour, shortening, the old ceramic mixing bowl with a hairline crack in the side, the pie crust cutter whose wooden handle has lost all but a few patches of red paint, the wooden rolling pin with just one handle, the mixing spoon that has lost most of its silver plate.

There’s no recipe; no measuring cup. I know what to do.

Two big handfuls of flour into the bowl. A rounded spoon of shortening. I turn on the tap and let it run until the water is cool. Two splashes of water into the bowl atop the flour. “Just sprinkle, don’t use too much,” a voice in my head says. Firmly but gently, I work the flour into the shortening with the pie crust cutter. A crumbly mass begins to form. Quickly, I press the crumbs into a smooth mound at the bottom of the bowl. “Time to roll now,” the voice says.

I sprinkle the granite countertop with flour. “Not too much, just a little and smooth the flour with the palm of your hand,” the voice reminds me. I pinch the dough in half and roll each half between my palms. “You need a nice round ball to start,” says the voice. Using the heel of my hand, I flatten the ball in the center of the floured countertop. I run my floured hands over the length of the rolling pin—up and down quickly until the pin is dusty white.

Then right, left, up, down, right, left, up, down, again and again I press the rolling pin over the dough until it begins to form a circle. I hold the pie plate over my circle. “Make sure the circle is big enough,” I hear the voice say. Very carefully, I fold my circle in half and transfer it to the pie plate, easing the folded half up and over the other side. “Remember to cover all the plate’s edges,” the voice directs.

I roll the second dough ball into a flat circle too, but I leave this one on the countertop. “Cover it with a damp towel. Don’t let the dough dry out while you make the filling,” admonishes the voice.

I wash the rhubarb stalks, looking closely at each to decide whether the stalk is too big and needs to be peeled. “If you don’t peel the stalks, the pie will be stringy,” warns the voice. I take a paring knife and knick the top end of each stalk, stripping the veins from top to bottom. I quickly cut each stalk into pieces the length of my thumb.

Using both hands, I scoop four big handfuls of rhubarb pieces into the bowl. A handful of sugar and half a handful of flour follow. The old spoon moves in my hand, trying to coat each piece of rhubarb. But some of the flour and sugar refuses to stick. “Don’t worry,” reassures the voice, “you can sprinkle it over the top later.”

The coated rhubarb pieces fall into the pie plate. My fingers rapidly rearrange the pieces, reorganizing their haphazard placements. I sprinkle the loose flour and sugar over the now heaping pie plate. A dash of cinnamon dusts across the mound. Lumps of butter scatter across the top. “Use five lumps—one for each quarter and one for the middle,” directs the voice.

Gently, gently I pick up the second round of pie crust. “Don’t tear it! Be careful,” the voice scolds. I carefully fold the second crust over the mounded, sugared rhubarb. I press both my palms over the mound, shaping the crust to the hilly contours of the rhubarb.

“Always wet your thumb before you try to seal the crust,” the voice advises. I turn on the tap and wet my thumb so I can pinch and seal the two crusts together when suddenly I remember:

All this I learned from my mother. I can still hear her voice.

Happy Mother’s Day, Amelia Jean.

Amelia Jean Jorgenson died January 7, 2013, in Palm Harbor, Florida. She was 89 years old. She had not made a rhubarb pie in many years.