If I wrote this blog for unequivocal support I would be a fool.
When he arrived, he had bags of equipment. "I didn't know how much you would have," he said. "Well, I have pots and pans," I thought, but realized it was probably better that he brought extra supplies, considering my track record. I thought I was prepared, putting out a mixing bowl and a grater we didn't even use. A grater?! Like Mary Poppins and her carpetbag, he pulled out knives, a rolling pin with no handles, and a slick mat from France that is pretty much magic. We started by rolling out dough that he had prepared the night before.
 |
| this mat refuses to let anything stick to it, also, it wears a beret |
I learned that dough should be cold and rested, and is much more difficult to work with if not. His dough was a thick disk, and totally unlike mine.
He rolled one out like the professional he is, then told me to do one. I could barely get it to move, it was so heavy and cold. "Don't be afraid of the dough," he said. When I started getting the hang of it, my dough was uneven and breaking into pieces, like my mind. I think it was then he truly realized what he was up against (this was about fifteen minutes into the two and a half hours we spent baking). "So just, um, try and even it out here...ok, just give me that, no, let go, give that to me..."
"Well, what should I be doing?"
"Make the cherry pie filling," he said.
"Ok, and you flute the edges," I said, as if it were an even trade-off. And flute the edges he did, easily, and looking disconcertingly like that picture I posted last week. I took a video of him pinching the crust, but the best part of it was that you can hear "MacArthur Park" in the background.
We had two crusts, so we made two pies. The "good one" was the apple, which was the more difficult of the two. The cherry pie filling (which I was in charge of!) involved opening a can of cherry filling and mixing in cinnamon, vanilla, and salt. I made it a lot more difficult than it needed to be a few months ago. Like, I strained the cherry pie filling and then put it back together. WHY?!
While the pie crusts re-cooled in the fridge, we peeled apples and spooned out the cores, keeping them in a big bowl of lemon water. Some of them he cubed, others I sliced into tiny slivers with a knife so sharp you wouldn't feel it cut off your finger.
We boiled the cubed apples into a delicious-smelling compote with ginger and cinnamon, and he made a gorgeous lattice for the cherry pie. He wove them on a cutting board and we put it in the freezer.
"The trick is to keep the dough cold. You can't work with warm dough," he said.
We filled the pie crusts with their respective mixtures, and arranged the apple slices in a layered circle. We transferred the lattice over the pie and he deftly cut away the extra dough and folded over the crust. My goodness, they were beautiful.
And then we put them in the oven and things got hot and fun. By which I mean, I got distracted and went into my bedroom where this picture awaited me:
 |
| Gah! |
And when I walked back into the kitchen I noticed it was smokey.
"It's smokey," I observed, to which he said it must be something that had previously dripped in the oven. I put a baking sheet under the pies and then it got RUHL smokey and the fire alarm went off. Turns out I had smoldered the cherry filling that had oozed out when I put the baking sheet over it. I went around the house, throwing open windows and doors and wondering how fast smoke inhalation could kill an elderly cat with cancer. As he cleaned out the hot oven with mitts and two towels, the second fire alarm went off. I couldn't help laughing--of course I couldn't have a peaceful, easy baking experience, even with a professional helping me.
We aired out the apartment and the rest of the baking went without incident. The pies look beautiful, and the apple pie is amazing! So good.
I am very lucky!
