I can bake a cherry pie.
In fact, I am good at pies, in general.
This is especially important when I am faced with a task that I am decidedly not good at. Like repointing a brick wall. Which I attempted yesterday. What a mess.
After a couple of sweaty hours of smearing hydraulic cement into the cracks between bricks (and despairing because it inevitably dripped in unattractive chunks down the wall) I took a break, headed for the kitchen and reclaimed my dignity.
Yesterday’s pie was peach-and-blackberry: summer tucked into a crust and sprinkled with a crumb topping. Yum.
But the more legendary pie has got to be cherry – and not only because of can-she-bake-a-cherry-pie-Billy-Boy, Billy-Boy. I baked a cherry pie a couple of weeks ago and was especially happy with it because:
* I made it in a houseful of kids over a weekend when I completely set aside work and didn’t even sweat the to-do list. I pitted the cherries while watching a Miyazaki anime movie, with a bunch of kids sprawled around the living room.
* I used the “pie cherries” I bought from my favorite Farmer’s Market stand, Twin Springs.
* Making cherry pie makes me think of my mom.
Mom made the best apple pie, every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it is because of her that I can roll out dough without crying in frustration over buttery holes in the crust—well, her and the pastry cloth my sister Jean introduced me to.
Mom also made cherry pie, with canned pie filling.
But when she was a young bride, she was more ambitious. She and my dad set up house in a tiny cottage down the lane from Dad’s parents, who lived on a farm in Gordonsville, Virginia. The farm was called Spring Fields. So my parent’s tiny place was called Trickle Lots.
My mother adored my dad. She adored him so much that, when she was 21 or so, she left her goody-two-shoes behind and married him despite his big bad motorcycle and despite the fact that her parents weren’t too wild about his rough edges and defiant independent streak. But the fact was, Dad was supremely responsible and, more importantly, he adored my mother right back.
Out in the country, they made a home together. Dad commuted—in a car so old the rain came up through the rusted-out floorboards—about an hour to law school at UVA, while Mom, who grew up in a Long Island rowhouse, held her breath as she passed the enormous cows out in the pasture near the cottage, hoping they didn’t attack. She was determined to be a good housewife, wherever she was planted. She pinched pennies by removing Dad’s worn-out dress shirt collars, turning them inside out and sewing them so the frayed bits were hidden. She cut their worn out bed sheets down the center, where they’d worn thinnest, and sewed them back together with the less worn-out side pieces in the middle.
She read her own mother’s feathery handwriting on small index cards, recreating family recipes for her new husband: Lamb stew. Meatloaf. Scalloped potatoes.
And she baked a cherry pie.
Cutting the shortening into the flour with two knives, criss-cross, criss-cross, until it was the size of peas. Adding cold water a little at a time, until the dough was soft but not yet sticky. Rolling out the crust on the table in the tiny kitchen. Did she have a rolling pin? Or did she use a milk bottle? Laying the crust into a pie tin. Mixing cherries with sugar and corn starch, to take up the juice. Laying the cherries into the crust, dotting them with butter, covering with a second crust, crimping the edges and cutting vents into the top to let steam escape.
In fact, I am good at pies, in general.
This is especially important when I am faced with a task that I am decidedly not good at. Like repointing a brick wall. Which I attempted yesterday. What a mess.
After a couple of sweaty hours of smearing hydraulic cement into the cracks between bricks (and despairing because it inevitably dripped in unattractive chunks down the wall) I took a break, headed for the kitchen and reclaimed my dignity.
Yesterday’s pie was peach-and-blackberry: summer tucked into a crust and sprinkled with a crumb topping. Yum.
But the more legendary pie has got to be cherry – and not only because of can-she-bake-a-cherry-pie-Billy-Boy, Billy-Boy. I baked a cherry pie a couple of weeks ago and was especially happy with it because:
* I made it in a houseful of kids over a weekend when I completely set aside work and didn’t even sweat the to-do list. I pitted the cherries while watching a Miyazaki anime movie, with a bunch of kids sprawled around the living room.
* I used the “pie cherries” I bought from my favorite Farmer’s Market stand, Twin Springs.
* Making cherry pie makes me think of my mom.
Mom made the best apple pie, every Thanksgiving and Christmas, and it is because of her that I can roll out dough without crying in frustration over buttery holes in the crust—well, her and the pastry cloth my sister Jean introduced me to.
Mom also made cherry pie, with canned pie filling.
But when she was a young bride, she was more ambitious. She and my dad set up house in a tiny cottage down the lane from Dad’s parents, who lived on a farm in Gordonsville, Virginia. The farm was called Spring Fields. So my parent’s tiny place was called Trickle Lots.
My mother adored my dad. She adored him so much that, when she was 21 or so, she left her goody-two-shoes behind and married him despite his big bad motorcycle and despite the fact that her parents weren’t too wild about his rough edges and defiant independent streak. But the fact was, Dad was supremely responsible and, more importantly, he adored my mother right back.
Out in the country, they made a home together. Dad commuted—in a car so old the rain came up through the rusted-out floorboards—about an hour to law school at UVA, while Mom, who grew up in a Long Island rowhouse, held her breath as she passed the enormous cows out in the pasture near the cottage, hoping they didn’t attack. She was determined to be a good housewife, wherever she was planted. She pinched pennies by removing Dad’s worn-out dress shirt collars, turning them inside out and sewing them so the frayed bits were hidden. She cut their worn out bed sheets down the center, where they’d worn thinnest, and sewed them back together with the less worn-out side pieces in the middle.
She read her own mother’s feathery handwriting on small index cards, recreating family recipes for her new husband: Lamb stew. Meatloaf. Scalloped potatoes.
And she baked a cherry pie.
Cutting the shortening into the flour with two knives, criss-cross, criss-cross, until it was the size of peas. Adding cold water a little at a time, until the dough was soft but not yet sticky. Rolling out the crust on the table in the tiny kitchen. Did she have a rolling pin? Or did she use a milk bottle? Laying the crust into a pie tin. Mixing cherries with sugar and corn starch, to take up the juice. Laying the cherries into the crust, dotting them with butter, covering with a second crust, crimping the edges and cutting vents into the top to let steam escape.
The house would smell buttery and sweet when my dad returned from Charlottesville, clattering down the two-lane country road. And after dinner Mom would set the pie on the table to cut it, so he’d see the perfectly browned crust, and he’d raise his bushy, blond eyebrows and say how beautiful it looked. He loved pie.
And they’d take their first bite and discover:
She’d forgotten to pit the cherries.
Here's my cherry pie recipe, with a variation on Mom's crust (no more Crisco, and with a bit of whole grain flour):
And they’d take their first bite and discover:
She’d forgotten to pit the cherries.
Here's my cherry pie recipe, with a variation on Mom's crust (no more Crisco, and with a bit of whole grain flour):
The Crust
1 cup unbleached white flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup non-hydrogenated vegetable shortening
5 tablespoons, maybe more, ice water
Mix the flour and salt together, then cut the shortening in with two knives until it is the size of peas (you can do this in the food processor, just don't overmix). Add ice water a little at a time, maybe 5 tablespoons, until it is all coming together in a ball, but not yet sticky. Roll out and lay in your pie pan. Add:
The filling
1 quart basket of sour cherries, PITTED
maybe 2 tablespoons honey, or more to taste
3 or so tablespoons flour
a good sprinkle of cinnamon
Mix together in a bowl. Top with:
The topping
1/2-3/4 cup oats
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon or less, salt
3 tablespoons butter
1/8 cup flour
mix together with your hands so the butter is distributed evenly
Bake at 350 for 40 minutes or so. Serve to someone you adore.
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