Knobby Knees & Lemon Pie: A Legacy Letter from Annie Laura Folk’s Granddaughter

Don’t you wish your adult self could go back and ask the questions your teen self didn’t know to ask?
I do. Especially now—when I understand just how much legacy is tucked into the quietest corners of a woman’s life.

My mother’s mother, Annie Laura Folk, died when I was 24.
I hadn’t even met my husband yet.
Hadn’t become a mother.
Hadn’t faced the kind of moments that would’ve had me dialing her for advice, perspective, or just a familiar voice that felt like home.

So for the lessons I missed asking about, I pull from the 24 years I did have with her.

And I’m still learning.

She wasn’t grandma. She wasn’t granny.
She was Grandmother.
With all the formality, presence, and capital letters she carried into every room—and every recipe.

She made roast beef in a pressure cooker.
Cornbread dressing that never saw the inside of a box.
She played bridge and ran her garden club like a seasoned CEO.
She made lemon pie so good it quieted a room.
And she grew daylilies she bred and registered herself—award-winning, elegant, and unapologetically proud.

And still—after the plates were cleared and seconds were served—she’d gently say:

Save your fork.

Because the best was still coming.
Not another chore. Not a lecture. Not a list.
But dessert.
Sweetness. Surprise. A final touch worth waiting for.

That phrase? It stayed with me.
Because she stayed with me.

Christmas at Annie Laura’s house wasn’t curated or color-coded.
It was laughter around the table, plaid skirts and paper bags underfoot, and the kind of joy that didn’t need staging.

I have some of her daylilies in pots in my own front yard.
Divided from her original plants.
Still growing. Still blooming.
Still teaching.

Here’s what they’ve taught me:

It takes three years for a baby daylily to bloom.
When they do? It’s gorgeous but fleeting—each bloom lasts just one day.
If you deadhead (remove the spent blooms) daily, the plant keeps producing.
But if you don’t? It goes to seed—spending energy on survival instead of beauty.
And if you never divide them? They stagnate. They crowd each other. And they stop blooming altogether.

Tell me that’s not a metaphor for womanhood, leadership, or life in general.

Knobby knees, church shoes, and swing-set theology.
This was her pulpit.
And I was listening—even when I didn’t know it.

Some legacies come in journals or perfectly preserved recipes.
Mine came in quiet confidence.
In lemon pie smudges and Bath & Body Works honeysuckle lotion.
I rubbed that scent into her hands and feet after her stroke—one of the last rituals we shared.
Softness. Stillness. Sacred touch.

And now?

I still make her lemon pie four or five times a year.
No meringue. Just Cool Whip.
And still—it hushes a room.
I don’t make it because of tradition. I make it because it centers me.
It reminds me of who I come from.
It reminds me that sweetness is worth waiting for.
It reminds me to save my fork.

This is legacy:

You carry the wisdom of a woman who told you dessert was coming.
You carry the bloom of a flower that took three years to show up.
You carry the strength to deadhead what’s done, divide what’s crowded, and protect what’s still coming.

You’re not behind.
You’re blooming on time.

And if it feels like things are slow or silent?
Remember: some things are just preparing to surprise you.

So save your fork, friend.
The best is still on the table.
And maybe—just maybe—you’re the one passing it down now.

Bonus: Annie Laura’s Icebox Lemon Pie

The kind that’s earned silence, seconds, and stories for decades.

Ingredients:
1 (14 oz) can sweetened condensed milk (Eagle Brand, if you’re doing it right)
3 large egg yolks
½ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 pre-made graham cracker crust or homemade if you’re extra
Optional: Cool Whip for topping

Instructions:
In a mixing bowl, whisk together the egg yolks and sweetened condensed milk until smooth.
Stir in the lemon juice and mix well—it’ll thicken as it sits.
Pour mixture into prepared crust.
Chill in the refrigerator for at least 4 hours, preferably overnight.
Top with Cool Whip if desired—or serve it plain and perfect.

Note: This isn’t a showstopper pie—it’s a “just grab a fork” pie.
Cool Whip on top, no apologies.
Which, if we’re honest, might be the best kind of leadership there is.

This pie may not look like much.
But don’t let Cool Whip fool you.

This is a recipe for leadership—the kind that isn’t flashy or loud, but rooted and lasting.
Annie Laura never gave a keynote or ran a startup. But she knew how to feed people. How to prepare. How to wait. How to prune what was done and give energy only to what was still blooming.

And now, that’s what I know, too.

So here’s what her lemon pie taught me about life:

Don’t confuse “quiet” with “passive.” The strongest women I know never needed to raise their voice to change a room.
Stop wasting energy trying to revive things that are done. Deadhead your calendar, your habits, your people-pleasing.
Don’t hoard what you’ve been given—divide it. Legacy is meant to be shared.
Wait for what’s worth it. Some seasons take three years to bloom—and that’s not behind. That’s right on time.
And always—always—save your fork. Because you’re not done yet. The best may still be coming.

That’s leadership.
That’s legacy.
That’s Annie Laura.
And if you’re holding the fork now… you know what to do.

Legacy Reflection: What Will You Pass Down?

1. What are you still holding onto that needs to be deadheaded—emotionally, relationally, or on your calendar?
2. What part of your legacy are you actively dividing or sharing? And who needs a piece of it?
3. Where are you being called to bloom slowly—without shame, without urgency?
4. Who taught you something in silence that shaped how you lead today?
5. If someone wrote a “lemon pie story” about you—what would they remember?

If you’re craving more than just dessert—if you’re in a season of pruning, blooming, or legacy building—send me a message or leave a comment.

Let’s talk about what you’re passing down… fork and all.