My guess is the world doesn’t need another blueberry pie recipe. I mean, you can google and find … well… too many. (And which one is good?) You might even go old school and open a cook book or a baking book to see what you find. Is mine the very best? Probably not to some. But it’s the one that baked in my kitchen and it’s the one I know well because it got eaten right here. Quickly. And with big scoops of creamy vanilla ice cream, naturally. Is mine messy Bessy? You bet, for sure, and it looks darned homey, right? (Hint: It’s really hard to over bake or burn a pie. Sometimes, in order to get a golden brown crust, the filling may bubble, bubble, toil, and trouble right out of the slits or edges. Like in the photo above.)
…a late summer or Labor Day almond-laced peach pie with a nutty crumb toppingJump to Recipe
Folks love pie. They not only like to EAT pie; they like to TALK pie. Just start a conversation with, “I was thinking of making a pie…” and see where the discussion goes. Lists of favorite pies; sad looks about not being able to make pie crust; tales of Aunt so-and-so’s legendary apple pies; questions about your sharing said pie; wondering about who’s doing what come the holidays. I like to talk pie because I like to BAKE pie. Just about any pie. I mean, is there anything prettier? Any better reason to clean your plate? Is there a tastier way to end Thanksgiving? A tastier way to begin the Friday morning after Thanksgiving?!
Living in Colorado, I skew up my annual late-August Palisades peach pie just a tinge. There’s peach-blueberry; brown sugar peach pie; peach cobbler (well, it’s pie-ish); some sort of crisp; and so on and so forth. This year, I had to have a crumb topping because… I don’t know. But not just any crumb topping; I wanted an almond crumb topping with the almond note repeated in the peach filling so that you had that perfect complete almond thrill in each and every bite. I love almonds– and peaches and almonds are related, you know. So now you have an Almond Crunch Peach Pie. Just for you.
Help! I can’t make a tart!! (Scroll down to TIPS for helpful info.)
A person who loves words is sometimes also an over-thinker. Take this, for example. When I consider the word “tart,” I’m not sure which comes to mind first: “tart” as in a one-crust pie usually baked in a pan with a removable bottom or “tart” as in, “Whooee, boys, those apples got me puckering up” or “tart” as in, “a female who is attractive and has the air of being promiscuous, even if she isn’t.” (Thanks, URBAN DICTIONARY, for that last definition.) Now, part of the problem is the English language. I don’t think “tarte” (tart in French) or “torte” (tart in German) or “tarta” (tart in Spanish) pose quite the same predicament. (Is my verb-subject agreement correct in that last sentence? You decide.) But it might and I just don’t know it. While I speak a little of all three of those languages (I can order a glass of white wine in nearly any tongue), fluent I’m not. This week’s post, all about a plum tart that needed baking one afternoon, had my brain not only trying to figure out a recipe for the darned thing, but also kept me awake (well, perhaps for a moment or two…) considering the word, “tart.”
When someone’s turning 91, they deserve the birthday dessert of their choice. On second thought, everyone should get their most-loved confection each and every year! Birthdays are memorable causes for joyous toasts, laughter, and yummy dinners ending with apple pie/chocolate cake/strawberry cheesecake/butterscotch tart and, yes, great coffee. But 91 — wow. Not all of us make it to that special moment and those that do are blessed. My husband’s Dad, Gene, celebrated 91 great years this week and while it wasn’t a huge party, we had a few family members for a roast beef and twice-baked potato lunch (lunch is better these days and he loves roast beef) as well as Gene’s forever fave sweet — Lemon Meringue Pie.
When fall finally arrives (not sure it’s here yet), it’s time to bake again — and by November, it’s time to think of baking for Thanksgiving and Christmas. If I am anything in life, I am a pie baker. I’m not a county fair blue ribbon winner, but I’m something better — I’m the person folks like to see walking into their house or the church potluck with a pie basket on her arm. It wasn’t always that way, but pie baking is a progressive art or one that is a lifelong undertaking. I began with pies that didn’t taste badly, but were pale and puny at best and were luckily called out by older, experienced pie bakers in the mid-70’s. (“You could have left that in the oven a while longer.”) Even now, hundreds and hundreds of pies later, there’s the occasional crust that won’t hold together, for example, and gets ceremoniously dumped straight into the garbage can. It doesn’t faze me anymore, but pies continue to be educational as long as you’re willing to bake them. If you don’t bake one for a while and then assume you’ll be fine, that pie may or may not bake into something worth eating with a scoop of good vanilla ice cream.
In September as the peaches wane and the apples are just ripening, here in Colorado we have trees and trees full of plums. These aren’t the big old black, handful plums we see a bit later on, but rather are the small dark purple, firm-when-ripe Italian prune plums. While excellent for snacking, perhaps they’re even better for baking since they tend to hold their shape and aren’t overly sweet. You might think of plums as the fall bag-lunch fruit —and I do, too— but for the past few years I find I adore a beautiful plum tart or, in this case, crostata.
It came without warning. All of a sudden it was the end of June. It was nearly the 4th of July. Dave and I were both off by about a week and had no idea why. This man’s birthday is July 3 and yesterday he said to me, when I asked about a birthday dinner reservation, “What? Is my birthday this weekend??” Why, yes it is!
In the meantime, I’d been working on a risotto post for the blog. Having a fun old time making the risotto, finding the dishes, taking the photos, writing the text and recipe and so on. Except I had nothing for the immediate holiday. Necessity is the mother of disaster sometimes, but hopefully not here. (Watch this space for the risotto love coming up next week or maybe even the week after.)
While I might’ve, I’m not sure I would have made this a year ago.
Over the past few days, my eyes have been drawn to a number of accounts online and in hard copy that have zeroed in on some of the amazing benefits or windfalls of living life Covid-Style. Two keep coming to mind. In today’s Sunday NEW YORK TIMES on the front page, in an article by Ellen Barry entitled, “City Folks Flee the Virus, and the Bears Rejoice,” a man named Jonny Hawton is now working from home in Vermont instead of making a huge LA commute every day in California. He couldn’t imagine returning to the previous lifestyle where he only saw his baby daughter one hour a day. “If someone told me I would have to go back and do that tomorrow, I don’t know what I’d do.” Another woman — Juanita Giles — reviewing Misty Copeland’s new book, BUNHEADS, for NPR, provides interesting insights into now being with the kids at home all day. While she misses lots and fears her social skills are deteriorating, she does not miss one thing: after school activities. Running the roads to get to rehearsals and classes, changing clothes on the fly (think shoving sweaty little feet into ballet tights in the van), squeezing homework into a car ride (“I HATE MULTIPLICATION!”), and eating 5 slow cooker meals a week (all tasted the same–she obviously hadn’t cooked my slow cooker meals!!) weren’t her idea of a fun life. Did she know that before? Surely she did, but what to do? That was how things were. As a dancer, however, she did terribly miss dance and so did the kiddoes — enough so that the prima ballerina’s new book was an instant hit instigating leotards now quickly donned at home and endless pirouettes through the kitchen where non-slow cooker meals were now being cooked. Sometimes change, as hard as it is, is good.
More’s the pity, I haven’t an Italian bone in my body — unless drinking a lot of Chianti counts? But I love to cook Italian food and nothing makes this baker’s heart sing like making a crostata for dessert. A crows-TAH-tah (plural: crostate) is a freeform pie — no pie or tart pan necessary — and, filled with jam, is often the homemade dessert of choice in an Italian kitchen. There is occasionally a lattice pastry top, though not often. The French word for such a pie is a gallette and the two terms are often used interchangeably here in the states where we bake this pie full of whatever fruit happens to be ripe and in good supply. I’ve taught crostate making in both my Italian Christmas Day Dinner Class and in one-on-one pie classes. Without exception, everyone who makes it loves the finished product and feels terribly accomplished because who doesn’t like to look at and eat pie?
If the goal of feeding folks in the summer is to keep the cooking and the heat at a minimum, I’m in. As my friend Jodie says, “I turn into a troll when the temperature gets above 65 degrees F.” Even it it’s not terribly hot outdoors — or is, in fact, lovely — my house seems to turn into a hot box on June 1 every year. Of course that’s just one reason Americans grill (the contemporary version of the separate summer kitchen) and eat outdoors anytime we can. The other is we’re inordinately attached to kicking back for three months every year. Or we say we are anyway.
