Feeling Domestic

"How hard could this be?" I asked myself as I began to use a pastry blender on the contents of the bowl in front of me. Flour, salt, sugar, shortening... harmless ingredients in and of themselves, but combined in these porportions, about as dangerous as a lethal weapon. Remember how I used some of these same things to make gravy back in April? But no, it's not gravy I'm making today. I'm making a pie, or, more accurately, attempting to make a pie, since my trial and error ways usually produce more error. But at Enrichment last week, a genuinely talented lady showed us how to make what appeared to be a simple pie crust, so I thought, "why not give it another try?" And the reason I say "another try" is because I've tried to make several pies in the past, with often the same result; that is to say, a rather unfortunate and depressing looking pie crust. One pie I made, probably my first one, was for dessert with my cousin Whitney who's been to culinary school. It was an embarrassing moment. Half a dozen pies later, the pies and accompanying pie crusts have produced equal shame. In fact, last November I made a pumpkin pie that, although tasted good, was not much to look at and so I think it may still be in the back of the freezer, hiding out in shame, like the Ugly Ducking of Pies.

Notwithstanding my previous failures, I went to my friend's house today for this joint pie-making venture. Apples were the intended victims for the pie today, consigned to Kristin's Ill-Fated Pie Attempt #7. And so I got down to business with the pastry blender, and pumped myself up with thoughts of my grandma, my pioneer heritage, or at the very least, Ma from Little House on the Prairie. Fortunately, my channeling of those gifted pie makers past and present gave me luck, because I was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't too difficult of a process, despite feeling doomed from the start for various reasons, one of which was the lack of foresight which led me to being fewer apples than the recipe called for. Not to mention they were the wrong kind. But I forged on, with high hopes that my small, gala apple pie would be just as delicious. I understood the depth of my lesser abilities though, when after making the crust, and coring and peeling the apples, I peeked at the recipe and realized that the process that had just taken me two hours to complete was supposed to, in the "Prep Time" of the recipe, take only about 25 minutes. Betty Crocker must have been a whiz with a paring knife, that's all I can say. Rolling the crust out was another matter entirely. I have always thought, in the pie making world, that it makes sense that if you want to make a circle with the dough, you should start out with a circle. This I did, but it seemed my rolling pin had other ideas, and I ended up with a slightly oblong circle, which I managed to slap across the pie pan without stretching it too much. I tried harder the second time, for the top, but without much more success. Such as it was, it was ready for the oven. To my credit, I did remember a tip, probably from my grandma, (thanks grandma) to cover the edges with foil so you don't burn those before the pie is all the way done. Then, without so much as a flourish, I pushed it into the oven and closed the door, glad to not be handling anymore a pie that surely I had botched.

When the timer went off thirty five minutes later, a strange and surprising thing happened. I took out a pie that was nicely golden brown on the top, not burned around the edges, and that filled the air with a pleasing aroma. "where did this pie come from?" I wondered to myself again, not sure that it was really the same one I had put in. I was sure the pie fairy had come and switched a really nice looking and smelling pie for the one I had brought not enough apples for, the wrong kind of apples for, and basically, though following directions, surely must have mishandled it along the way somewhere. But sure enough, it was my pie. Looks can be deceiving, I told myself, and was afraid to taste it, fearing I would have to deflate my now over-inflated pie-making ego. But somewhere along the way, a miracle occurred, because you know what? It actually tasted good. I was amazed. How did I do it? I have absolutely no idea. Certainly, the right tools and ingredients in the wrong hands can be a recipe for disaster, and I am happy to report, that this time, I wasn't part of that disaster. It wasn't exactly June Cleaver, but it was a start.



(this is actually a picture of it before I baked it. I didn't have one after because, well, we ate it! Amazing!)