But I Made A Pie

FROM SCRATCH

Inspired by Dorothy’s New Vintage Kitchen

“Baking is…Life. So when you describe what you’re making, you must describe life. Do you see? It’s not just recipes…” – Jenny Colgan

Standing on the back deck overlooking the lake in the late afternoon is a fabulous way to procrastinate. I like to pretend I’m spying on the landscape. If I stand perfectly still, it’s as if I disappear, or maybe I just become part of the natural terrain. I observe how the current is gently moving the water along with the heat towards the west, how the trees sway in unison with the breeze, and if you squint your eyes a little, the ducks that congregate on the edge of our beach resemble a burnt pie crust. I don’t know why, but from my perspective, the world looks like it’s covered in wheat, brown sugar, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. 

Maybe I’m hungry.

You can only write, rewrite, edit, write, and rewrite for so long, then I lose my mojo about whatever I was tackling, and I have to go and do something else. I’m looking for a task that is gratifying, like stealing a forkful of pasta salad from the frig, ordering shit I don’t need from Amazon, or baking a pie.

I settled on baking a pie because my friend Dorothy’s recent blog post caught my interest. It involved blueberries, sugar, and a flaky crust.

How hard can that be?

Dorothy is a whirlwind in the kitchen. She hosts an incredible blog filled with creative recipes, but it’s not just recipes. She shares her family traditions and childhood memories and has an incredible knack for using seasonal produce in ways you’ve never imagined. I always tell her, “Dorothy, you somehow make me look good in the kitchen, and cooking isn’t my thing.” 

So what the hell, I’m going to bake a pie from scratch, up at the lake, and I don’t even have a rolling pin. Dorothy writes, “A fruit pie is sometimes a bit of a challenge,” and here I thought tackling RAGBRAI was courageous. 

Larry and I drove into town to pick up all the ingredients, such as blueberries (obviously), unbleached flour, unsalted butter, lemons, sugar, and cornstarch. I thought it would be fun for Larry and me to bake the pie together. I’m picturing Josh Brolin and Kate Winslet in The Last Days Of Summer. It was an epic pie scene.

Well, that didn’t happen. He disappeared the minute I started assembling the ingredients. Maybe he’s looking for some SAG (supply and gear) support? God knows we need it.

Dorothy says to make the crust first so it can chill. Then, she adds, which I didn’t see until it was too late, that for best results, everything should be chilled, including the flour. 

The flour? 

So I start gathering the tools I’ll need to make a perfect crust. 

It eventually dawned on me we don’t have a pastry cutter or a food processor as the recipe calls for, so I substituted with a potato masher and a large fork. I also don’t have a rolling pin, but we do have a lot of wine bottles, so I removed the label and washed one up really well, and I’m confident that it should be adequate for the task. Maybe I should chill it?

It’s been about two decades since I’ve made a pie, maybe more, and I’m sure I used a pre-made pie crust. I know, don’t get all judgy, I’m not a baker, but I like the idea of baking, and I like to imagine that I’m a goddess in the kitchen with an adorable apron and pearls. That all makes sense if you’ve seen the movie Julie and Julia (highly recommend).

My first task is the crust. Dorothy says whatever you do, do not overwork the dough. It’s not what I would call an ambitious substance, but in deference to Dorothy, I remained silent and asked nothing more of my blob than to be flaky (get it).

After measuring out the flour, butter, salt, and shortening, I gently cut in the butter and shortening with my masher and fork. She says to work on it until it resembles wet sand—like that kinetic stuff you get the kids for Christmas because it knows how to hold a shape. 

It’s easier said than done. It took me almost an hour to get there with my adaptive utensils, or maybe my vision of wet sand needs adjusting.

Simultaneously, I made a list of things for my next Amazon order, especially a pastry cutter. 

Dorothy says the next part is particularly tricky, so I looked deeply into my bowl of wet sand and suggested it was in its best interest to work with me. I try to be encouraging. 

I whispered, “You might feel like wet sand, but you’re really a soft pale mound, like a well-rounded breast,” which takes the concept of food porn to a whole new level, but I think it helped.

You have to be very careful when handling the dough (the same goes for money). A light touch goes a long way, so I gently added the juice of a freshly squeezed lemon (picking out the seeds as they fell) and a splash of ice-cold water after removing the ice. After easing the ingredients together, barely stirring, and hardly breathing, I felt a little proud about the entire process. 

A pale mound of dough starts forming in the bowl. I pluck a small piece from the mound and pop it in my mouth even though it states in bold print on the flour package not to eat it raw! What a rebel.

She says to wrap it in plastic, cut it in half, wrap up both pieces, and chill for at least 30 minutes. So I educated myself about the importance of keeping everything cool. For one, it lengthens the time that the fat in the dough stays solid. See, it’s all about the gluten, if you use only a little cold water it reduces the gluten content and also allows the dough to be crisper. Also, a minimal amount of handling reduces the gluten, so we do not knead pastry dough into submission like we do when we’re making bread (Not that I ever plan on making bread, but never say never, who ever imagined me making a pie).

Will you look at what I made with a potato masher and a fork? 

Janet Clarkson says, “A pie is only as good as its pastry, and one of the delights of a good pie is the contrast in texture between the crisp pastry and the filling – whatever it might be.” No pressure.

While the sun is baking the outside world, I preheat the oven to 400 per the instructions and place a cookie sheet on the lower middle rack. 

This part is clever. Dorothy says when the pie is ready to bake, you put it directly on the hot cookie sheet, which helps cook the bottom of the pie quickly so it won’t be soggy. No one wants a soggy pie, and Dorothy has figured it all out. 

Glancing at the lake, I notice a layer of smoke clinging to the mountains like steam from a boiling pan, casting a grayish oura over the entire lake. The glass door between me and the outside world is hot to the touch. I’m suddenly appreciative of the air conditioning, which allows me to work with butter and fruit without having everything melt and spoil. It’s as if my kitchen has become an oasis in the desert of summer. 

When I’m working on a story, I gather words and images to make it rich and satisfying to the reader. I found out it’s the same with baking. The right flour, butter, cream, and sugar all enhance the experience and the outcome. I suppose writing and baking are both creative expressions—something that engages all our senses.

So now that the crust is safely chilling out in the refrigerator, I have to prepare the blueberries. After rinsing them in a colander with cool water, I measure out 6 cups into a large yellow bowl and add cornstarch, lemon zest, lemon juice, sugar, salt, and cinnamon. I lean over the bowl so I can breathe in the sweet earthy smell before mixing all the ingredients thoroughly and slipping them into the frig. I feel so satisfied, like a seasoned cook I brush the dust from the cornstarch on my pants, dramatically wiping the sweat from my brow. 

Now I can refresh my wine and sit on the deck for a spell, enjoying the swallows fighting off a crow that’s trying to get at their nests. It’s an extraordinary effort on the swallows’ part to chase away this huge crow. I provided a solid stream of commentary, but the birds completely ignored me.

When my timer goes off, it scares the crap out of me. Shit, now it’s time to roll out the perfect pie crust with a wine bottle. The thing is, civilization was built around wheat, right? It’s why we all stopped camping, built our little brick houses, and got to know the neighbors. Baking is probably one of the oldest professions, well that, and story telling. 

But I digress.

I take the first lump of dough out of the refrigerator and sprinkle my massive round cutting board with flour. Engraved on the edge of the board, it says, “You Are What You Eat.” Hey, sometimes I can be kneady.

Larry appears out of thin air, looking anxious. He gets that way around food, especially when I’m trying to make the perfect pie crust.

He says, “Do you know what you’re doing?’

“Does it look like I know what I’m doing? I have a lump of dough and a wine bottle.”

He points as I’m rolling out the dough, “It looks a little thick there.”

I’m thinking the dough is thick? But I have a choice, I can either roll my bottle over the plump edge or break his finger. 

When the dough is thinned to perfection, and I have formed it into an awkward circle, he says, “Now, what are you going to do?”

Are you with me as I consider the multiple purposes of rolling pins? 

The crust is sort of stuck to the board, so I turn my pie dish upside down onto the dough, lift the extraordinarily heavy round board into the air, flip it over, and ease the mailable dough into the dish. Parchment paper would have been helpful here!

The move was daring and semi-successful. Larry and I pushed the edges of the dough into the round pie pan, and I was relieved to see there was a substantial amount left over to create an attractive edge. I use the word attractive loosely.

After pouring the chilled berries into the freshly rolled dough, I start rolling out the second pale mound. Larry makes similar suggestions as we flip the board over and gently lay the dough over the berries. We pinch the edges together, trim the excess dough, and slice a few air holes in the top before popping it into the oven.

I set the timer, grab my wine, and head out to the deck. In fifteen minutes, I turn the oven down and let the pie cook for the better part of an hour. I sit here watching the bats head out for their evening supper of bugs. There is a crazy one this year. He comes out every night but only manages to fly in circles like his radar is out. I call him Loopy. 

As I was sitting here smiling at Loopy, he flew into my space, and I had to duck or get buzzed by a bat. I think he just wanted to say hi the way bats do, with a swoop and flyover. It’s kind of cute and sort of creepy. 

Dorothy says the blueberries have to boil, or the corn starch will not activate, and the pie will be soggy. Oh, good lord, it’s like a never-ending science experiment. I keep checking to see if the berries are boiling. Who knows?

I wait, I check again, I ponder the sanity of even attempting to make a pie. But I do feel a deep sense of accomplishment. I suppose that baking doesn’t change the world or your current circumstances, but it is a great way to lift your spirits and imagine you’re Julia Childs for an hour or so, who advised, “Learn how to cook – try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless, and above all have fun!”

If you need a little distraction because you’re in a writing slump, I say get in the kitchen. Pretend your apron is a cape. Play with really good ingredients. Make something you can share with others, something that makes people smile. There’s nothing like a shimmering blueberry pie with a scoop of French vanilla ice cream in the middle of a hot summer night. 

The hardest part? Waiting for the pie to cool and set before cutting into it. 

I’m Living in the Gap, heating up the kitchen, join me in the comments, we’ll chat.

PS. The pie was delicious–enough.

PSS. Loopy was up early this morning when he should have been sleeping. Larry unfortunately left both the front and back doors wide open to let the cool air in, and Loopy thought he’d slip in and say hi. Oh my, if we had a video of Larry and I trying to coax Loopy out of the house and not get bit in the process, you would pee your pants.

PSSS. My granddaughter asked how old I was. I told her I was 64. She said, “Did you start at one?”