Cherry Pie Take 3

Killer Hedgehog!

Today, Howard and I made a cherry pie. This time without the canned cherry pie filling, and instead using fresh, sweet cherries. He introduced me to the eighties hair-band song "Cherry Pie." That video is so tacky and silly.

Elise is still in Italy, and we had to talk about future living arrangements, so Howard pitted the cherries while I cleaned the living room, waiting for Elise to Skype us. Howard's hands were stained purple from the cherry blood.

Joan (from Tree House) recommended I use Crisco for the dough to make it extra flaky and easy to roll out. "Get ready for some trans-fats!" I told Howard, as we head into the kitchen to finish the pie.

"To Ease the Pain, Detroit" -Love, Jerry Vile

I mixed a fourth cup cornstarch, a touch of sugar, and a teaspoon of salt with the halved cherries, and then took down a bowl for the crust. Even with the shortening, putting the dough in the freezer for a bit (per Aaron), and rolling it out between two sheets of plastic wrap (thanks, Casey!), the dough was cracking and splitting and so difficult to get into the pie pan. I think it may be just too warm to make pies. Howard stopped me and kissed me when I got frustrated.

The dough almost made it across the pan

When I was ready to give up on my project, he said: "Maybe you can make a drink every week, instead. I like drinking, you like drinking, it could be fun! You could make drinks out of whatever you have at hand. Like, rum, coconut milk, and cat food." 

But actually, I think maybe I'll just focus on cakes. The pies always turn out well, but they are so frustrating to make. Before I give up on pies for the summer, I'm going to cooling the dough for longer. I'm not ready to give up. 

I told Howard making a lattice top crust, while beautiful, was going to put me over the edge. He agreed, so I just rolled out the crust and covered the pie. 

Voila.

After dinner at Simone's, we were too full for dessert, so I sent him home with a couple of slices and I'll have some tomorrow. 

last of the season

As you can see, part of the dough survived the rolling pin

This week, feeling overwhelmed with these endless commutes, work, and cat-stress (how can that be a thing? people without pets wonder), I hardly thought about my baking. Recently I've been feeling trapped, with no dreams readily available. I spend so much of my life under Chicago, so to speak, in humid tunnels with creaking, shrill noises, surrounded by people I don't know and would never want to know. And that's all before I even get on the train. 

I was in the midst of my grocery shopping when I remembered I didn't have anything planned to bake this week. I intended to make a yellow cake with chocolate frosting, which was Howard's request (what a classic!). When I looked at my Good Housekeeping book, I found I had already made those two items, of course, so I will have to save that for a bonus. 

Jenny from work had what I think might be the last of her rhubarb in the freezer at work for me, and Joan brought be some the last strawberries from her farmers market. So again I made strawberry rhubarb pie. The rhubarb was mushy from being in the freezer, and some of the strawberries couldn't be used, but they made enough for the filling. 

I made an oil crust again, so my vegan friends can eat it at work. I've been having the worst trouble rolling out the dough, so I've been all about the "no-roll" pie crust (read: pressing it into the pie plate and along the sides while Howard chops the strawberries and mixes the filling). But my friend Patrick gave me this lovely dough-cutting tool which I'm obsessed with. It makes it much easier to move the dough around. The right tools! As my Dad would say. They make all the difference. 

We made the pie quickly, because I was in between a phone meeting and our movie night with a friend. We still managed to be late to the second installment of our Leopold and Loeb-themed film night.

There isn't much to write. I was stressed and felt strung out this week. Yet I had a nice lunch with a dear friend, and a few lovely days with my boyfriend. 

(Un)Traditional Peach Pie

Soundtrack: Connie Converse's So Sad, So Lovely, First Aid Kit's The Lion's Roar, Cary Ann Hearst's "American Made Machine" and "Are You Ready to Die?," Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You" and "Big Yellow Taxi," Joan Baez's "Diamonds and Rust," and Mumford & Sons' "Awake My Soul."

Yesterday my friend and supervisor, Kate, came over and we made a peach pie. I anticipated it would be pretty standard, a traditional pie, sort of like the way this woman describes baking a perfect peach pie: Farmers' market peaches, lattice-top pie crust, whole wheat flour to add an "earthy note that complements the sweet peaches."

I bought seven peaches from La Casa del Pueblo, the largest grocery store near me. The recipe calls for six cups, so I thought seven would be plenty, and probably leave some over.

She came in, looking fresh and lovely, her hair pulled back in a bun, wisps of brown hair around her neck and face. Kate is natural and easy, and exudes peace and kindness. It is easy talking to her. She washed the peaches, and I peeled them. Peaches have such a special scent: They are warm and sweet--summer embodied. I love their soft skins (the ones I was slicing away with a little knife and tossing into the garbage).

All seven peaches added up to about five cups! What! We walked to the corner market, which of course didn't have peaches, so we bought a mango. As I mixed the flour, salt, and oil to make the crust that I padded down into the pie plate (rolling it out didn't work out so well), Kate mixed the peaches, mango, flour, sugar, and cinnamon together in a big red bowl. She couldn't find the lemon juice in the fridge (it was with the vinegars, oops) so she cut up and juiced a lime instead. When the delicious-smelling mix was in the pie crust, I pressed pie dough into pieces between my fingers and dappled the crust.

While it baked at 425 for forty minutes, we went outside to look at my downstairs neighbor's beehive. Kate loves bees (BEES!).

We ate our slices of pie in the little park across the street. The pie is tasty--messy, a little tropical, and sweet. The crust is savory and measures out the sweetness of the peaches and mango.

Vegan Rhubarb Pie, Take Two (+Black Bottom Pie)

Jenny from Tree House grows rhubarb in her garden, and she brought a big bag of it for me this week, with the caveat that I bring pie for her. I love rhubarb pie, but I will never get through all the cakes and pies in my cookbook if I make it every other week, so along with it, I made a Black Bottom custard pie (decidedly non-vegan).

Howard was my assistant baker again this week, and it's looking like that will be the usual. Our routine is shaping up to be Wednesday night in Logan Square, and travel to Pilsen the next day to feed the cats and bake. I love baking together. It's good bonding time. Conversation sometimes come easier to me when my mind is partially on a task before me. Along those lines, my favorite way to clean is before an audience. Sometimes I find myself inviting a friend over, and having him sit in the kitchen while I wash dishes and clean the stove top while we catch up. I guess part of it is working off nervous energy.

We made the rhubarb pie first. Howard took charge of cutting the stalks, plus we added raspberries and strawberries this time. The addition of raspberries gives the pie an extra tartness, a back of the cheek-watering tartness. I rolled out the oil crust on a wrinkled piece of plastic wrap, which gave the unbaked crust the look of human flesh. Howard excitedly exclaimed: "That's how we would make skin in a movie! And a cannibal could peel that back and underneath would be mashed raspberries, and she could eat that."

mmm

As that baked for forty minutes, we made the custard pie. The gingersnap crumbs probably weren't crumbled enough, and the custard turned out a little lumpy. We haven't tasted that yet as it is still cooling in the fridge and needs whipped cream. I'm sure it will be tasty, though!

The rest of the rhubarb pie will head to work with me tomorrow. If the custard pie turns out well, I may bring that on Saturday.

clouds in my coffee

Adamo Photography

It's coming up on the end of my weekend, and I am sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of cold coffee, pleasantly drained. As I write, the sky darkens, more clouds blanket the sky, and the cute girl-next-door to the Sears Tower puts on her brilliant party hat for the night.

Yesterday, the inspiring Kate (whose blog Steadfast and Yearning is a daily celebration of life), my friend and supervisor, helped me pick up this beautiful, special cat from Evanston:

Her Tree House name is "Nimbus," which originally I dismissed as too masculine and also, kind of expected for a big white cat. Nimbus is a fluffy cloud about to erupt in rain, hail, snow, or sleet (but still won't deter your friendly United States Postal Service). 

When we were headed north into the gorgeous Evanston, Kate and I were headed right into the enormous gray clouds about to break into a torrent. We were caught in the storm as we ran for cover. How appropriate, we agreed, for it to be raining on the day we pick up a cat called Nimbus. 

Last week, Howard picked Coffee Cloud Cake for us to bake today. He is a coffee fiend, so it's not a big surprise he chose a cake that called for a cup of cold coffee. It didn't hit me until Kate and I were driving down Lake Shore Drive yesterday that I was making a cake with the word "cloud" in it. Elise says coincidences tell you that you are on the right path. Apart from being as fluffy as a big ol cottony cloud, the cat's growl is like the ominous roll of thunder, and her strike is a fast as lightning. 

 Howard, Elise, and I made the cake together this afternoon. Elise said it was nice, because I just told them what to do. It was so fast, with me reading the recipe, Elise whipping the ingredients, and Howard measuring them into the bowls. 

I went to Target to buy a tube pan, and I picked up measuring spoons as well. When Howard came over, they were the first thing he saw, and he deflated a little. He had hunted around until he found measuring spoons that matched our measuring cups. I am so touched! 

I believe the coffee cake is called a cloud cake because of the whipped egg whites which make it very light. It has chopped walnuts in it, which give it a nice raw crunch. It bakes for an hour, and when the top springs back when touched, you turn the pan over on a bottle, like so:

a rice vinegar bottle in full bloom

Howard at all times was sure it was going to fall and break every single thing in the kitchen, so to break the horrible anticipation we all went out for tacos and margaritas. When we got back and slid a knife between the cake and the tin, we shared it at the kitchen table. It came out of the tin a little rough looking, but I wasn't concerned. 

Elise left tonight for Poland, where she is giving a talk at a conference on puppets. They say she pulled some strings to get there, and is going to have a ton of fun, no strings attached (har har har).

The cats were really curious about this cake. Noreen lifted her face and sniffed delicately, while Twinkle Toes just went for it. 

Elise kept an eye on him, but he was seriously interested in her slice. 

naughty twink!

It was good, and I look forward to having it tomorrow with my morning coffee. I think it's a little sweet, and would probably cut down on the sugar if I made it again. 

maybe if i reach for it with my lucky paw she won't notice

It was a beautiful weekend. I spent time with people I really care about, in a city I love the more I spend time in it. 

Baking with Howard! Or, Howard and I discuss Vengeance Baking

Last night Howard and I watched the eerie 1959 French film Eyes Without a Face by Georges Franju, and the atmospheric black-and-white images go well with the name of the cake we baked today: Silver-White Cake with Snowpeak Frosting. Doesn't that make you think of the White Witch in Narnia? Or that faceless girl above? Snow White in a blizzard? 

One thing I love about Howard is that he is a connoisseur of horror. Any horror movie I love (which I probably heard about here), he's already seen, so he introduces me to new things to get excited about, to inspire me, new things to love. 

Dear Mitch, who knew just what I needed after baking with me a few weeks ago, gave me a gorgeous hand-mixer as a housewarming gift, along with beautiful red mixing bowls and a set of matching spatulas. The mixer--my god, the mixer--is amazing. It rendered baking an absolute snap! *cue the manic housewife head tilt, huge smile, all teeth, waving a whisk*

The butter I bought from Trader Joe's went mysteriously missing (the joy of living with roommates), and my baking powder must have been lost in the move. We had just enough butter to substitute for shortening, and Howard ran out to the corner market to buy me some baking powder. I like what he bought, because the label looks like a tarot card design. 

oh god, the effort of walking to the corner store!

Silver-white cake batter is really silver-white. I wish I had taken a picture, because I don't know why I thought the cake would come out still platinum as my coworker Susanna's hair. And really, it's just the top that is browned, of course. The inside is white, which made me consider cutting off the outside layers next time. Too much? The cake is super light and fluffy from four whipped-up egg whites (thanks, Mitch!). It takes just twenty minutes to bake, and came out springy, edges not in the least crusty or crumbly. 

Room-temperature egg whites. Whole milk. Give the pans a shake and a smack to even out the batter before putting them in the oven. These are the things I've learned from other people. 

Howard told me about a high school girl who baked cupcakes for all the girls who were mean to her. The secret ingredient: Sperm. But whose? --remained a valid question. Until I looked it up and read that there wasn't actually any bodily fluids included in the recipe. Which brought me to Octavia Spencer's character in The Help: "Eat my shit." Vengeance baking! What a wonderful new world. 

However, this cake was made with nothing but joy and lightheartedness. With the marshmallow-like cake on a platter, covered in three pieces of aluminum foil, we traveled from Pilsen to Palmer Square to watch Compulsion, another 1959 movie, this one about Leopold and Loeb. The cake turned out surprisingly well, unlike the teens' "perfect" crime: the frosting went on smooth, unlike Orson Welles' makeup; it looked as angelic as the young Dean Stockwell; and the cake was as soft and airy as the cotton-headed character Ruth Evans. All in all, the cake was a success. The right tools really make a difference.

those little silver ball decorations would have been a good addition

Now I just need to get some measuring spoons. 

Before I end, I want to say that though this cake was so much more fun to make, and turned out clearly better, the two pies I made under such stress last week turned out quite well. The first was gone within an hour at work, with very positive reviews, and the second was enjoyed by my roommates. When I told my mom the pies nearly caused a collapse, she said, unsurprised: "Baking after a move will do that." 

Failure

I almost didn't make a pie this week. I had every intention to make two to share, in fact, people were expecting it. Two separate people bought me rhubarb, and one of them also bought me the most delicious, irregular, real farmers market strawberries to go with it. I set out to make two rhubarb-strawberry pies, one for the new roommates, one for my coworkers.

I did everything the way it was supposed to be done, even chilling the dough before rolling it out. One moment I was struggling with getting the dough to roll out, but thinking how rhubarb looks like those little candies Grandma kept in a dish on the table, and the sugar was like snow, and what a nice long day in the sun I'd spent with Howard, but god, the dough kept sticking to the vodka bottle I was using as a rolling pin; it wouldn't stay together at all. The next thing I know, I am on the floor of the new kitchen, worried I'm about to cry. I couldn't roll out the dough. It wouldn't happen for me.

I thought about running out to see if any market was open that sold pie crusts.

I tried again and again to roll out the dough. I switched out the balls of dough I had in the freezer and tried until each was a hard little fistful of crumbs. I looked at the pile on the table and knew it wouldn't work.

I threw away the dough, cleaned my dishes, and went back to my room to eat a row of Oreos. Once I felt fat and pathetic, I returned to the kitchen to try again, this time not putting the dough in the freezer. Maybe that was the problem. For awhile, things were looking up. And then I tried to peel it off the table, and it came apart in my hands.

In a fit, I just dumped the dough in the pie pan and pressed it down with my fingers. I spooned the mixture in and sprinkled dough atop. Fuck it.

I don't know what the issue is--maybe I'm tired, maybe it's the late hour, or it's being in a kitchen I don't know with an oven I don't understand and living with people I don't know who don't understand me because I can't afford better.

But goddamnit. I wanted to at least be able to make a pie. The mess that is baking in the oven is hardly what I imagined bringing to work tomorrow. What a humiliation; not being able to make a simple pie.

The pie that nearly broke me