Pie Crust Fail

I stood at the kitchen counter. The sun had set hours ago and the children were in bed. I glanced over at the bowl of peeled and sliced Jonathan apples doused with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. A recipe lay to my left, as did flour, vegetable shortening, salt, a glass baking dish, rolling pin, and kelp (oh wait, not kelp, that was for a vegan pumpkin pie created by my dear friend Molly a few years ago, not mine). The stage was set. There was no turning back. I had resolved to overcome my inordinate fear of making a pie. As you may recall from a previous post, I had all but sworn off any attempts of ever making a pie crust after a disastrous endeavor several years earlier. But that was before my days of breadmaking and extreme baking. If I could roll out pizza dough every Friday evening, I reasoned, surely I could tackle this feat. Besides, I had acquired from Jared's grandmother a crust recipe guarannteed not to fail. It seemed simple enough - no cold water with an ice cube immersed to dip my fingers, no chilling of dough - just mix and roll. Valiantly I faced my adversary, rolled up my sleeves, and launched my quest for victory.

Act One
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had successfully rolled out and transferred the bottom crust to the pie dish. Confidently, I gathered the remainder of the dough into my floured hands. Suddenly my previous apprehension seemed silly. With ease I had completed part of my task, and in a few minutes I would have a pie baking in the oven, and sufficient time to watch an episode of Mad Men before retiring to bed. With a gleam in my eye, I dared the dough to cross me.

Act Two
An hour later, I still stood at the kitchen counter, pieces of dough surrounded me. The gleam had transformed into tears. The no-fail pie crust had failed. I felt bamboozled, betrayed. Sensing my acute desperation, Jared, who was washing the steady stream of dishes my pie making was producing, offered words of encouragement and advice. "Add a litte more shortening," he suggested. But instead of alleviating the crust debacle, the shortening served only to excaberate the situation, and I was left with shiny fingers and white grease smeared onto the flaking dough. Moreoever, our tempermental kitchen drain chose this particular moment to become clogged and brown dish water stagnated in our sink. Finally, in order to redeem my thwarted efforts, Jared picked up the rolling pin, crushed the dough back into a ball, and began to roll while I lamented over our misadventures. Initially, Jared's labors appeared not in vain, but when an attempt was made to shift the dough from the counter to the dish, it collapsed into pieces. Reluctantly, and a bit ambivalently, I commenced the entire process again.

Act Three
An hour and a half later, numerous bowls, wooden mixing spoons, and measuring cups cluttered the kitchen counter. Flour disseminated throughout the room, resting primarily on my black shirt and pants. Thankfully, the dirty dishwater began to slowly vacate the sink, leaving behind a ring of unmentionable yuk. Despite the dissaray, I smiled in satisfaction. The smell of baking apples permeated the house as the fully crusted pie cooled on a wire rack on the dining room table. A bit excessive in his praise but having learned the wisdom of flattering his wife, Jared declared the pie to be "the most beautiful one ever," and it tasted pretty good too! Victory is indeed sweet.

A blessed Thanksgiving to you all.

Just a few comments on the pictures. When not busy wielding light sabers and destroying bad guys, Thomas often lapses into, I must admit, our least favorite character: Baby Thomas. Last week, Thomas handed me his tie and informed me that Baby Thomas was going to church. And yes, we loaded ourselves into the van (couch), participated in the Divine Liturgy and received the Eucharist. When not busy throwing food, books, toys, etc. everywhere (or in Russell's case, stealing Elliot's toys), Russell and Elliot are enjoying games of chase, reading books, wrestling with their older brother, and just being cute.