Making Pie

I like to make pie, but like everything, making pie started out simple and ended up complicated. I made my very first pie for Thanksgiving to bring to my sister's house. I didn't even have a pie pan, so I used a loaf pan instead. It didn't taste bad, but I learned that as much as I liked sugar, I didn't need to change the basic recipe for crust and add sugar. The loaf pan made a very interesting shaped piece of pie, one that I haven't repeated, but I remember how pretty the slices were with little U-shaped crusts. Maybe I should try that again sometime.

One thing I like about making pie is putting on good music before I gather the ingredients for the crust. Ofra Harnoy's Brahms cello sonatas are peaceful, but it's fun, sometimes, to listen to Jason Mraz and dance around the kitchen. I imagine my pies taking in the energy I give them from the music. While I'm measuring and rolling and pinching, my mind wanders. For me, making pie is a productive and meditative act.

I gather my implements first, my Tupperware mat, my rolling pin, the measuring cup with extra flour in it, my pastry blender, a wide spatula, a butter knife, my large shallow bowl, and the measuring squeegie that keeps me from wrestling with getting lard out of a cup. Looking at them makes me happy.

Pie crust is simple. I combine:

2 Cups flour,

1 tsp. salt,

3/4 Cups lard or butter,

then after everything is well blended, I sprinkle it with 5 Tbs very cold water.

I used to use shortening, but now with lard, I know my crust will be flaky. When I first switched from shortening to lard, the phrase 'Hey, lard butt' kept going though my head. There was a girl in my high school who was bigger than the rest of us and some of the mean kids used to yell that at her across the gym. That poor girl. I hope she found solace somewhere. Still, my nutritionist, Dani Brooks, told me that a body responds to shortening as if it's plastic and that anything else is healthier. That was a good reason to switch. Butter in a crust has good flavor, but isn't flaky. Nearly everything is a compromise. Lately, I've been using a combination of butter and lard.

Another trick I have is to add extra cold water to the dough as I'm working if I need it. The well-known secret to a flaky crust is that the flour, salt, and fat can be mixed together very well. Then after the ice-cold water is sprinkled on, it shouldn't be mixed much at all or it will become tough. I don't really mix the water in. I fluff it with a knife. I get a dough ball to roll out by picking up the damp clumps and pressing them together. If it's too wet, I roll it in a dry area of the dough. If it all sticks together and isn't sticking to my fingers, then I'm good to go. I sprinkle it liberally with flour as I go, hopefully adding enough flour to keep the dough from sticking. So now you know - my personal secret is that wetter crusts bake even flakier.

My rolling pin used to belong to my husband's mother before she died, so I used to imagine Marilyn making pie for him. It was a labor of love, I thought, because I remembered her face whenever he dropped by. She always had a roast going, chicken fricassee, or her own special macaroni and cheese. I can remember my husband's face too, when she had something special. She always had something special cooking. She was an amazing cook and I think she made all that food hoping he'd stop by and she could see that look on his face as he walked into the room and breathed in deeply. I loved the image of me continuing this for her, but then one day, he told me that she didn't use her rolling pin all that often. I am still better at baking than making dinner, so when I make pie and I pick up her rolling pin, I nod to her ghost and try to believe that she'd still like my effort.

I roll out my dough and fold it up over the rolling pin, hoping to get it into the pan in one piece. I use my wide spatula to scrape up the sticky spots. I almost always have to piece things together, so if you eat my pie and it's stuck to the pan, it's because I patched it up and called it good. I nod to my mother, miles away, when I flute the edges.

It turns out that the pie maker in my husband's family was his Grandma Rose. She was the one who made pie for him. For two or three years, I tried to work out her lemon meringue pie recipe. To my husband, it isn't a holiday without lemon meringue pie. We kept asking her for the recipe and she kept writing it down for us. It was awful and bitter and I just couldn't get the hang of it. I grew beautiful biceps, though, whipping that meringue in my copper bowl. Finally, we asked her for the fourth or fifth time if she could help us. By then, she was blind and frail and couldn't show us herself. "Just look on the inside of the cabinet door. I'm sure it's still written there," she said. We looked all over that cabinet, taped up with articles and scrawled phone numbers and no hand-written lemon meringue pie recipe. Finally, I gave up and went back out to the living room, when my husband started laughing. He showed me the recipe ... printed on the back of a sweetened condensed milk label. So much for Grandma Rose's lemon meringue pie. You could probably find that exact recipe if you Google 'Carnation Sweetened Condensed Milk.'

All along, I'd been zesting my lemons too vigorously. I only needed to get the oils out of the lemon rind using a nutmeg grater to take the shine off the lemon. Those bright yellow gratings were just what I needed. I taste for tartness before I've added eggs to get it just right. And I also use two extra egg whites and twice as much sugar in the meringue as the recipe calls for. That way it's big and sweet, like a marshmallow.

When I put together the pie, I bake the empty shell for 20 minutes first. Then, I put the lemon curd into the hot shell and bake it for another 20 minutes.

For lemon curd in a ten inch pie, I combine:

2 cans sweetened condensed milk

zest and juice of 5 medium lemons

5 egg yolks

About ten minutes into the second baking, I begin the meringue. My husband finally got me a beautiful Kitchen Aid mixer, the sweet man. For the meringue, I use a heavy-duty mixer to blend:

7 egg whites

3/4 Cup white sugar

1/2 tsp cream of tartar

The interesting thing about lemon meringue pie is that my hands touch every part of it. The crust is obvious and I probably wash my hands three or four times in the process of making a couple of pies. But with the meringue, I've found it's easiest to separate the eggs through my fingers. I've been given and gotten rid of at least three cute little egg separators. My hands work the best, but that's at least two more hand washings. My hands take a beating when I make pie, so I don't actually mind if they get a little butter on them.

When I'm blending the meringue, I start the mixer at the lowest speed to make small bubbles. I speed it up as it gets frothy. The meringue is done when it looks like satin, forms pretty peaks in the bowl, and my mixer starts to audibly slow down on the highest speed. Have I told you that I love my Kitchen Aid mixer?

My problem is that pie has become complicated. You see, as much as I love pie, I am diabetic and I can't safely eat it. On top of that, my son has an intolerance to fructose that really limits the amount of sugar and fruit he can eat without feeling sick. He also has a tree nut allergy. You'd think with all of that, I'd quit making pie, but no. I'm like the alcoholic bartender. I've learned how to make chicken pot pie, steak and vegetable pie, quiche, even sugar-free apple and pumpkin pie for my son, but it's still too much for me to eat. I usually succumb and eat pumpkin pie, but I end up feeling hung over afterward and tell myself, yet again, that it really isn't worth it. That's what I tell myself. As for the lemon meringue, my husband doesn't want me to change our recipe. Not one iota. It makes him happy so I still make it on holidays, but he usually has to share with friends. Sometimes I wonder if we don't get invited to Easter dinner just because of the pie. I'm reduced to eating one heaping teaspoon of the thing that I spent so much time perfecting.

Both of my grandmas were good at making pie in their own way. My mother's mother was known for her raisin pie and beautiful crusts. After failing to recreate that taste, I told my cousin and she gave me the recipe last fall. It was another sugar overload, so I could only have a small taste of the filling. I closed my eyes and could almost hear my grandma's voice. My dad's mom made squash pie that I've never managed to copy. It's probably that I can't get those big white and green squashes that she used. I liked them better than pumpkin. My mother makes amazing cherry pie and something she called 'Poor-Man's Pie,' which was mostly cinnamon, nutmeg, cream, sugar, and flour. I can't even begin to eat that and my husband says not to bother. My sister makes an awesome apple pie with a thick deep-dish crust. I should give her my recipe for walnut caramel apple pie. Maybe. Pie connects my family tree together through its women who bake it and through its men who admire and eat it. All in all, it's not a bad tradition to have in the family.

Thank you for listening, jb