"We must have a pie.
Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie."
-- David Mamet, Boston Marriage
 |
| Blueberry pie 10-23-14 |
"Never promise to make a pie and
fail to deliver on that promise."
-- Kate Lebo, A Commonplace Book of Pie
According to family lore, my favorite baby food as an infant was something called "blueberry buckle."
Apparently I lapped the stuff up.
After the trauma of watching the family dog devour my birthday cake at the tender age of 4, I started requesting pie for my mid-summer birthday.
True to form, I always chose blueberry.
My grandma was a cracker-jack pie baker. Her pies didn't always look perfect, but they were always delicious. She judged other women's pies by the "shortness" of their crusts. She'd nudge at it with the edge of her fork, and if it flaked off just right, she'd pronounce, "That's short!"
(Short, in pie-speak, means flaky and tender. Hence the use of "shortening" in the crust.)
Apple pie was Grandma's specialty. But when I asked for blueberry, I got it.
I distinctly remember my older sister bitching a blue streak about the fact that I'd ordered up blueberry pie instead of cake for one of my birthdays. She didn't want to eat it because she was afraid it might stain her teeth. (The same sister bitched about and then puked up grandma's Rum Cake on the carpet at the end of our twin beds one Christmas Eve.)
We all assured her that her teeth would be fine. So she reluctantly ate some. Then she asked my dad if her teeth were blue, and he said "Oh my God! They're black!"
She lost her shit for days.
It was awesome.
I don't bake a lot of pies. Cake always seems easier, less complicated, less messy. You can make a pretty passable cake from a box mix and everybody likes it.
But pie? Pie is a religion.
I happen to only believe in fruit pies. I will not explain myself. It's just my firm belief that a pie crust filled with pudding or gelatin or ice cream or pumpkin or congealed corn syrup or meringue or cooked cheese is just plain yucky. Also, pie must be baked. Cold "refrigerator" pies are caca poo poo. Just my opinion.
Give me fruit pie all day long -- cherry or blueberry, apple or peach, rhubarb or raspberry.
Also, frozen, store bought pie is the devil's work and Marie Callender is one of his minions. And canned pie filling is an abomination of desolation. Frozen, store bought crust is just plain sinful, and not in a good way. And any pie filled with fruit and custard mixed together is from the very center of the pit of Hell. Someone once served me "mock" apple pie with a filling made from green tomatoes, crushed Ritz crackers and cinnamon. It tasted like Satan's asshole.
If you lack the time or talent to bake your own homemade pie, at least purchase one that comes from an actual bakery and not a box.
I've known plenty of women who boast about how great their pies are. They often look plenty attractive on the outside, but are flavorless on the inside.
I'll take tasty and ugly over pretty and bland every time.
Anyway, this is all by way of saying that Leo asked me to bake him a pie yesterday. So naturally, I went back to my roots and made blueberry.
I make no pretense of being a master pie baker. But I did kind of surprise myself with this one. It turned out alright. It was still a little warm when I cut into it.
It smelled pretty damn good.
It looked pretty damn good.
It tasted pretty damn good.
And watching my kid devour three whole slices made me feel pretty damn good too.
Apparently I lapped the stuff up.
After the trauma of watching the family dog devour my birthday cake at the tender age of 4, I started requesting pie for my mid-summer birthday.
True to form, I always chose blueberry.
My grandma was a cracker-jack pie baker. Her pies didn't always look perfect, but they were always delicious. She judged other women's pies by the "shortness" of their crusts. She'd nudge at it with the edge of her fork, and if it flaked off just right, she'd pronounce, "That's short!"
(Short, in pie-speak, means flaky and tender. Hence the use of "shortening" in the crust.)
Apple pie was Grandma's specialty. But when I asked for blueberry, I got it.
I distinctly remember my older sister bitching a blue streak about the fact that I'd ordered up blueberry pie instead of cake for one of my birthdays. She didn't want to eat it because she was afraid it might stain her teeth. (The same sister bitched about and then puked up grandma's Rum Cake on the carpet at the end of our twin beds one Christmas Eve.)
We all assured her that her teeth would be fine. So she reluctantly ate some. Then she asked my dad if her teeth were blue, and he said "Oh my God! They're black!"
She lost her shit for days.
It was awesome.
I don't bake a lot of pies. Cake always seems easier, less complicated, less messy. You can make a pretty passable cake from a box mix and everybody likes it.
But pie? Pie is a religion.
I happen to only believe in fruit pies. I will not explain myself. It's just my firm belief that a pie crust filled with pudding or gelatin or ice cream or pumpkin or congealed corn syrup or meringue or cooked cheese is just plain yucky. Also, pie must be baked. Cold "refrigerator" pies are caca poo poo. Just my opinion.
Give me fruit pie all day long -- cherry or blueberry, apple or peach, rhubarb or raspberry.
Also, frozen, store bought pie is the devil's work and Marie Callender is one of his minions. And canned pie filling is an abomination of desolation. Frozen, store bought crust is just plain sinful, and not in a good way. And any pie filled with fruit and custard mixed together is from the very center of the pit of Hell. Someone once served me "mock" apple pie with a filling made from green tomatoes, crushed Ritz crackers and cinnamon. It tasted like Satan's asshole.
If you lack the time or talent to bake your own homemade pie, at least purchase one that comes from an actual bakery and not a box.
I've known plenty of women who boast about how great their pies are. They often look plenty attractive on the outside, but are flavorless on the inside.
I'll take tasty and ugly over pretty and bland every time.
Anyway, this is all by way of saying that Leo asked me to bake him a pie yesterday. So naturally, I went back to my roots and made blueberry.
I make no pretense of being a master pie baker. But I did kind of surprise myself with this one. It turned out alright. It was still a little warm when I cut into it.
It smelled pretty damn good.
It looked pretty damn good.
It tasted pretty damn good.
And watching my kid devour three whole slices made me feel pretty damn good too.
