Last winter, I made my first successful dessert pie ever. Successful, of course, is a relative term. But compared to my previous attempts, it was a masterpiece. I’d made it under the guidance of my best friend’s mother while I was home over Christmas break, so once I returned to Brooklyn I just had to give it another try without adult supervision. That one… didn’t go so well.
After the whole wheat pie crust fiasco, I pretty much gave up. Clearly I didn’t have what it takes to be a pie baker, and I should just leave it to the professionals, or at least just the people whose pies don’t end up looking like that. But about a month ago, I got an email from a friend who was taking part in a pie-baking contest right here in Park Slope. It prompted me to give pie baking another chance. Although I wasn’t able to take part in the contest in the end, I went ahead and made the two pies I'd come up with anyway, just to see if they could pass muster.
Based on what I’d find at the farmer’s market and what was likely to win me points for originality of filling in my imaginary one-woman pie contest, I decided to make a sweet green tomato pie and a Concord grape pie. The grape was easily the crowd favorite when I served the two up at a friend’s apartment that night, but the tomato was intriguing. It had a similar consistency to apple pie, and though the green tomatoes had a milder flavor than ripe ones, the pie was decidedly tomato-y.
The real triumph of these pies, though, was in the crusts. I’d mixed and rolled out – count 'em – four 9-inch pie crusts, and not a single one caused me mental anguish. So what was it about pie crust that had been so daunting? Simple: no one had ever explained to me exactly why you make pie crust the way you do, so I never worried about how strictly I adhered to the rules.
Everyone will tell you that the key to making good crust is keeping all the ingredients cold, and the reason why is actually quite simple: if the fat in your dough melts before the pie is in the oven, it will become heavy and dense, both making it harder to work with when you’re rolling it out and preventing the crust from getting flaky in the oven. The key is to cut the fat into the dry ingredients without letting it soften enough to actually mix completely with the flour.
My problem last winter was that, without this understanding, I’d been letting my dough get too warm, either from sitting out while I cut fruit or from overworking. It would fall apart in my hands, and rather than recognizing that it was exactly the warmth of my hands that was causing the problem, I’d just squish everything back into a ball and try to start over again.
So young, so naïve.
Now that crust and I have developed this deep spiritual connection, I’ve really come to love it. Making pie is deceptively easy and tremendously rewarding. The smell of a baking pie on a Sunday afternoon? Not much can beat that. Except maybe the smell of a baking pie on a Sunday afternoon when the Patriots are winning.
Traditional pie crust is a little bland for my taste, though, so last weekend, when I decided on a whim to make an apple pie, I worked on perfecting my own version.
Happy fall (even though it’s 85 degrees in New York today), and happy pie baking.
