It tastes just like mother's

My mother didn't teach me to cook.  Mom didn't like cooking.  Cooking to her was a duty that was performed only to ensure that your family ate.  It was a chore she really didn't like but performed daily.  Like most mother's of the time, the crock pot and anything of convienence set the meals.  So, our cupboard had plenty of Hamburger Helper, Count Chocula, Tang and any vegetable that the Jolly Green Giant could put in a can.  Crock pot roast beef, crock pot stew, crock pot chilie, crock pot chicken etc, etc.  My mom would put anything and everything into a crock pot.  We never complained because she drilled it in to us that if someone takes the time to cook a meal, then you shut up, eat it and never complain.  We never did.  But I would often think that she really isn't cooking, the crock pot did the cooking and the vegetables were out of a can and one of the after school chores was to peel the potatoes, so I never really understood her 'cooking' mentality.  
Making pies was different.  Making pies was an art form to my mother and she loved it.  Because she loved making pies, she made the most incredible pies.  Her homemade lemon meringue (never from a box of convenience), Saskatoon berry or raspberry peach or just plain apple, it didn't matter, they were heaven to eat.  I don't think her recipe was handed down to her as my grandmother made incredible bread but I don't remember her pies being as tasty as my mom's.  Mom never made just one pie.  Pie making was a full day's event done a couple times a year, depending on the fruits in season and she would make at least a dozen pies, even more, per session.  Her recipe was never written down and I was told, at a very young age, to watch and learn.  I never did and there were countless numbers of pie making sessions.  I have tried many times over the years to master her secret recipe and I never did.  I would phone and ask her for the recipe and she would always answer the same, "Lisa-marie, there is no recipe and I've shown you hundreds of times to touch and taste it".  The problem is I never knew her touch or her taste while making the crust, only that the finished product was the flakiest, tastiest pie crust ever created on God's green earth.
It wasn't only the pie crust, but the fillings too.   Her apple pie filling was thick and chunky and not too sweet.  Any filling with berries or cherries was never runny or messy and again, always thick.  The homemade lemon filling was never too tart or too sweet and was absolutely refreshing on the palate. Even her meat pies were incredible.  The crust would always hold the meat and together in, they never fell apart and again simply wonderful to eat.
So, determined to make a pie just like mom's pie I first combed through all of her recipe boxes, hoping it was written somewhere.  After two days of looking, it wasn't there.  I meditate daily for 10 minutes after yoga.  Normally I meditate to clear my mind and keep it clear.  Today, my mantra was pie crust.  I meditated for a long time and went back 15 years to the last time mom and I made pie together.  I visualized every step of the crust and every step of the apple filling and when I came out of my trance, I jumped up and wrote everything that I saw in my mind down on a piece of paper.  Then I went to Safeway, bought what I thought I needed and went back home to start baking mom's pie.
First I put the butter and the vegetable shortening into the freezer along with a bottle of white vinegar (yes her secret was using both butter and lard and they had to be really chilled and the vinegar did too).  While meditating I remembered her repeating that over and over, that they must be chilled.   I then sifted both the cake flour and the all purpose flour (that was another trick of hers, two types of flour and sift them even if you have sifted flour).  Then I mixed a bit of flour with brown sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, salt and cornstarch.  I peeled and roughly cubed the apples and squeezed a lemon over them.  I mixed the apples with the flour and sugar mixture and set them aside in the fridge. 
When the butter and shortening were well chilled I cut chunks into the flour and mixed it with a pastry cutter.  I spritzed it with chilled vinegar and added more flour and mixed again and added more vinegar and mixed again.  When the mixture held together when squeezed, I tasted it.  I really didn't know what I was tasting for but I did it anyways.  Then I put the mixture into a plastic bag and formed it into a ball.  I put the bag of pie dough AND the pie pan, into the fridge.  I preheated the oven to 425 degrees.  Then I anxiously waited.
After half an hour I took the dough from the fridge.  I cut the pie dough ball in half and floured the two halves, not the counter (I recalled that during meditation).  I put some wax paper on the counter and rolled the first dough ball until it was flat and round.  It transferred successfully to the pie pan without a crack so I knew then I was headed down the right pie path.  I put the filling in, rolled out the other dough, crimped the edges, egg washed it and sprinkled just a hint of cinnamon over the top crust.  I said a prayer before putting it in the oven.
After 10 minutes, I lowered the temperature to 375 degrees (another thought that came to me while meditating).  I baked it for another 35 minutes and I took it out.  It looked my mom's pie, it smelled like mom's pie but the true test would have to wait for 30 minutes while it rested.
Dad complained that it was too early for pie but I insisted he try it and I cut him a slice.  It held together and and filling slowly and gently slid onto the plate.  I cut myself a piece.  I watched as dad made a coffee and then dicked about at the sink and took a bag out to the garage and dicked about some more before I finally piped up "Would you just eat the damn pie, please".
Finally he took a bite.  He chewed and chewed for what seemed and eternity before swallowing.  He said nothing as he took another bite.  He chewed and swallowed and cleared his throat before saying "It tastes just like mother's".  I smiled, mom would be so pleased I thought. 
I rushed over for lunch to mom's home.  I wished that she could eat the pie but I know she can't and I didn't want to risk her choking on pie.  But I told her.  I told her how I thought and thought and I was able to remember all the little tricks and I told her that I used both lard and butter and I chilled them and I used two types of flour and chilled vinegar, not water and it worked.  I told her I mastered her recipe.  Mom didn't smile but she was smiling on the inside because I could see it and then she said "Finally".