The Pies: The Conclusion

Rachel: As promised, here is the story of the Thanksgiving pies. I warn you; it's not pretty.

I knew I was in trouble when I was kneading the dough and it just wasn't staying together. I decided, however, that denial was the best route to take and stuck the dough in the fridge. Maybe, I said to myself, the crust will hold together after it's cooled.

That would be wrong.

But by then, it was late Wednesday afternoon and while the apples might have made a lovely apple crisp, who serves apple crisp on Thanksgiving?



So I forged ahead, rolling ve--rrr-y slowly to try to hold the crust together and then doing a little cosmetic surgery (ie. just plastering some dough bits in random places on top) and hoping for the best. The result for the apple wasn't pretty but mostly worked, although I was nervous....and you can see why here.



Fortunately, the pie looked better post baking, as you can see here.



The pumpkin pie crust was the same story---just cracking and falling apart. I was lucky to get as much of the pie plate as I did.



Obviously the crust was not going to make this pie either. I am happy to report, however, that the fillings on both pies were delicious, which I am also going to point out certainly is at least 80 percent of pie, right? Yeah, I'm grasping at straws.



So, how were your pies?

Hey Ma-

Oh man. Pie dough is a difficult mistress. My crust wasn't quite to my liking this year, though it held together a bit better than yours seems to have. Did you try adding a little more water? It's such a fine line to walk when making pie crust--you both need to get it together and not overwork it. Which has left me agreeing whole-heartedly that the proof is in the pudding (or, you know, filling)...at least 80% so anyhow. Maybe if you're lucky we'll bake you a pie or two when we come to visit next month.



Sorry it's only a picture of part of my pie. This was one of the few shots I took that doesn't have my shadow imprinted in the middle of the pie.

XXOO
-R

Food for Thought Thursdays: My Pie Crust Phobia

As with most things, it's one, if not both, of your parents' faults. This is true for everything from why you can't stay in relationships to why your nose is clearly bigger than you'd prefer. What the "it" is, doesn't really matter.

So it is that I blame my father for my fear of making pie crust. An expert baker, my dad was the pie baker in our family; my mother wisely decided not to compete after sitting through a famous family moment in which my father and his mother — also apparently a great pie baker, although I don't remember sampling her wares — had a pie bake-off. They each baked a pie and then my mother, luckly lady, was among those asked to pick the best one. Talk about the proverbial family win-win. I'm not sure how she weaseled out of it, but she did — and she never, not once, not ever, baked a pie for our family. Quel surprise!

My dad's pies were the stuff of dreams. He mostly made them annually for Thanksgiving since he worked all the time and frequently came home after I went to bed at night. His apple pies were at least six or seven inches high, no joke, while his pumpkin pies were delectable. But while the fillings were terrific, it was all about the crust, which was buttery and simultaneously light and doughy at the same time. Post-holiday, my sister and I usually ate the pies for breakfast for as long as they lasted, which wasn't long, believe me.

Now while I pride myself on being a good cook and a damn fine baker, I'm no fool. I'm not competing unless I think I have a shot, and as long as my dad was alive, I wouldn't even enter the starting gate. That fear lingered long after my father was dead, indeed until this past Thanksgiving when I decided, at Rachel's urging, to make a pie crust from scratch.

I finally realized — aging really does make you wiser — that my fear wasn't about making a bad pie crust; my worry was that I might make a good pie crust and therefore somehow shatter the myth behind my father, a myth that has helped keep him alive and with me somehow even though he's been dead for over 20 years. It was a silly worry, of course. As I stood at the counter before Thanksgiving kneading and rolling the dough, I actually felt as if he was there with me. I only wish I'd done it sooner.