Grandma Sallie's Jack Pies

Fried pies taste like an old-fashioned slice of home. They have been a Southern staple for generations and can be found all across the South, from North Carolina to Texas. Unlike a slice of pie that requires a plate and fork to eat, these little hand pies are easy to hold and delicious. They are every bit as comforting as a standard-size pie and feel like a warm hug from your Mom or Grandma.

Fried pies are half-moon shaped pies crimped along the edges with the tines of a fork, filled with dried fruit, and pan-fried. The dough can be pie dough or biscuit dough, and the filling can be apple, peach, or sweet potato. While the exact origin of fried pies is unknown, most people agree that they originated in the Appalachian Mountains (The Charlotte Observer). Historians believe they were inspired by the English Cornish pasty, a hand pie filled with meat and vegetables on one side and a sweet filling on the other. Over time, as the English and Scots-Irish settlers made their home in the South, the hand pies took on a completely sweet form with dried fruit fillings (Saveur.com).

In North Carolina, there is a type of fried pie that is especially popular: fried apple pies. I've noticed that fried apple pies are often called "applejacks" or "apple jacks" here in the tar-heel state. When I searched for the term online, nearly every blog using "applejacks" was written by someone from North Carolina. Even flipping through old church cookbooks, I found them listed as applejacks. But in my family, we have our own name for them. My great-grandma, Grandma Sallie, didn't call them fried apple pies or applejacks; she simply called them jack pies. My Mama, uncles, grandpa, and even my great-grandpa Abihue called them that, too—and that's what I call them. It seems that Grandma shortened "apple jack" into "jack pie," and the name stuck!

Grandma Sallie in the 50s

 Grandma Sallie made jack pies often and kept them on her kitchen table. Mama says they were a special treat and a favorite among the family. So today, I wanted to share the story of how she made the jack pies, just as Mama shared it with me. The process started long before the dough was rolled out. First, the apples had to be picked, peeled, sliced, and dried. In the late summer, Mama remembers walking outside with Grandma Sallie to gather apples, picking them fresh from the trees. Grandma grew Stayman and Winesap apples in her backyard, along with Golden Delicious. My uncle told me that the Stayman and Winesap apples have a little tang, and they were the best for jack pies.

Mama remembers watching Grandma Sallie dry her own apples in the sun, letting the hot Southern sun do its magic. There was no fancy dehydrator—just patience and a belief in doing things the old-fashioned way. Grandpa Abihue played his part too. Not only did he help peel and slice the apples, he made a makeshift drying table. He went to the shed, found a piece of tin, and set it across two ladder-back chairs in the front yard. Then, Grandma spread out a clean white linen tablecloth over the tin, carefully arranging the apple slices on top. "That was my favorite part," Mama said. "I enjoyed helping her spread out the apples."

Throughout the day, Grandma would check on them, flipping the slices when needed. If the weather was warm and sunny, they took a few days to dry. "We picked up the edges of the tablecloth and bundled them together, kind of like when you scoop something up in your shirt to carry it, and took it inside the house," Mama recalled.

When it was time to turn those dried apples into jack pies, Grandma Sallie reconstituted them on the stovetop. She placed them in a pot, covered them with water, and let them simmer until they softened. To enhance their natural sweetness, Grandma stirred in just the right amount of sugar and a touch of cinnamon. Once the apples had softened and cooked down, she placed the filling into her special 'apple bowl'—a white bowl decorated with a pattern of red apples and green leaves. Today, that same bowl sits in our kitchen. It is a cherished reminder of the days when Grandma Sallie would make those unforgettable jack pies. 

The Apple Bowl

After the filling was finished, Grandma made her dough. "She made the dough just like she did for her biscuits—with flour, lard, and buttermilk." Mama said. Grandma pinched off small balls of dough, rolled them into circles, then spooned a generous heap of the apple filling onto each one. With a steady hand, she folded the dough over into a half-moon shape and pressed the edges together with the tines of a fork, sealing in that filling. A few small holes were poked in the top to let the steam escape, and then they were ready to go to the skillet.

Once a good dab of lard had melted in the old iron skillet, Grandma laid each pie into the pan, frying them until they puffed up and were golden brown. "Me and Grandpa could hardly wait for them to cool down so we could eat one. They smelled so good, it just made you hungry, " Mama told me with a smile. 

So, what made Grandma Sallie’s jack pies so special? It wasn’t just the sun-dried apples or the biscuit dough—it was the love she poured into every dish she made from scratch. Cooking was her way of showing kindness, a quiet but powerful gesture that made everyone who sat at her table or stopped by for a visit feel welcome. Whether you were family, a friend, or a neighbor, she made sure you never left hungry. I may not have had the chance to watch Grandma Sallie make her jack pies, but through my mom’s stories, I feel like I have. 

Food has a way of connecting us all. Recipes hold more than just ingredients—they hold memories, traditions, and the essence of those who made them. If you still have loved ones who remember those moments, ask them to share their stories. Write them down, learn the recipes, and keep those traditions alive. One day, you'll be grateful you did—because when someone is gone, those stories and traditions go with them. 

The Forgotten Crayon Portrait

Reading Time: 3 min. 30 sec.

Some discoveries happen when you least expect them.

In the summer of 2023, I found a snapshot taken in 1986 of an old framed crayon portrait hanging on the wall of the old Beaman Homeplace. Someone had taken a picture standing in front of it. You could see the person's reflection and the flash of their camera in the glass. That grainy snapshot was the only photo I had of my great-great-grandpa, John A. Beaman, and Malinda Cranford together. I was grateful to have it, but a question lingered in my mind: Where was the original portrait?

In the 1990s, a fire broke out in the kitchen of the old Beaman Homeplace, spreading quickly and consuming the living room and the upstairs. Only two bedrooms and another small room remained. Had the portrait survived? Or was it lost forever?

Then, on December 19, 2024, I received a surprise that I will never forget. My uncle was cleaning out his attic when he came across something hidden in a cabinet. As soon as he described it to me, I knew—this was it. It was the original crayon portrait. When he brought it to me, I could hardly believe it!

For months, I had thought it was gone forever, lost to the fire. But there it was, waiting all this time to be found. My uncle told me that another genealogist in our family had given it to him a few years ago at a Shiloh reunion. And now, after all these years, it was finally being passed down to me.

The crayon portrait at long last!

So, you may be wondering- what exactly is crayon enlargement? Well, I am here to tell you all about it! Crayon enlargements, also called crayon portraits or solar enlargements, are photographs that have been enhanced with crayon, chalk, charcoal, pastel, or graphite. Popular from the 1860s through the 1920s, they were created by enlarging a smaller photograph onto treated paper using a solar enlarger. This camera projected the image from a photo negative using sunlight. An angled mirror was used to follow the sun’s movement to direct light through the lens (Library of Congress).

However, this process had its flaws. The long exposure time often resulted in images that were too light, blurry, or out of focus, and any imperfections in the negative were magnified. To correct these issues, artists retouched each portrait by hand, using charcoal, crayon, or other mediums. Some were subtly enhanced, while others were so heavily overpainted that they resembled drawings more than photographs.

It’s fascinating to think about how much effort went into creating these portraits so families could display larger images of their loved ones. And now, with just a click of a button, we can capture a photo instantly. Photography has come a long way since those early days. 

Understanding how these portraits were made makes me appreciate the one of John and Malinda even more. It's more than just an image; it's a part of their story and my story. Let's take a closer look at their portrait!

John’s hair is parted neatly to the side, and he has a full beard and mustache. But something doesn’t feel quite right—the strands of his hair stand out, and his mouth appears as a dark, harsh line as if he has no lips. His eyebrows are entirely missing. Were they too faint to capture when the photo was enlarged?

 

Malinda’s long hair is parted down the middle. Her nose looks soft, almost undefined, and her right eye sits higher than her left. When I look at these details closely, I wonder: How much of what I’m seeing is truly how they looked, and how much has been altered? Some parts of their likeness may not be entirely accurate, but that doesn't change anything. 

How old is the portrait? When examining old photographs, clothing often gives us clues about the time period. John is wearing a jacket, plain shirt, and a Western tie with its strings turned up. Malinda's short-sleeved capelet crosses over her dress, though it's hard to tell if her dress has a crisscross collar or if it's part of the capelet. Their clothing reflects their humble farm life—nothing fancy, just simplicity. One of my favorite parts of the portrait is the frame. It's made of plaster, hand-carved with a swirling design of leaves, flowers, and dots, all painted in a rich gold. It looks so elegant!

A closeup of the frame. Check out those details!

Based on these details, I believe this portrait was created sometime in the 1870s or 1880s. Since Malinda died in 1888, it was almost certainly made before then—but exactly when? That’s a mystery that may never be solved.

When I started my genealogy journey, I wondered if I would ever find a photograph of John. I never imagined in four years, I would not only find one but that it would be the very portrait that once hung in the old Beaman Homeplace. And to think, it was sitting in an attic all along, forgotten and collecting dust. There are real treasures in the attic. You may never know what you might find!

Do you have a crayon portrait of one of your ancestors?  I'd love to hear about it in the comments below!