If you’ve been around this blog long enough, you know a truth about me. Yes. You do.
I love autumn. Everything about it. The texture of the sky, the smell of the air, the vibrant colors, and the leaf-peeping. I love every crisp breath of autumn. I love gourds and pumpkins and squash, and the crunch of new apples. Today, I love the squirrels hiding peanuts in my microscape. Everybody’s gotta eat come winter.
I love autumn.
In that spirit, I promised Mr. G, honey that I would make a pie. A peach pie. He had picked up a wee basket of this soft fruit at a local farmer’s market on the weekend.
Tuesday night, I set about making the pie. If you’re on my Twitter feed, you probably read about #makingapie.
Let’s be clear. Until Tuesday night, I couldn’t remember what last Year of Our Lord I made a pie. Face it. Pie is a petite food-gasm. A petite food-gasm that is made with a bucket of butter. A bucket of butter that sticks to your butt until the end of time. The. End. Of. Time.
I can’t stress this enough. You have been warned.
I set out to make a pie. On this pie-making quest, I decided that there’s better pie crust to be had out there. And there is. Run. Do not walk. Run to The Pioneer Woman website and take Pam’s Pie Tutorial. It’s okay. I’ll wait.
I used the 1 cup butter version. Yes. I did. I thought I might have a heart attack making that crust of butter, but I’m still here blogging today. Shew!
I pitched my food processor to the curb a while ago, so I was working that pastry blender like the hounds of hell were after me. The fingers on my right hand still haven’t uncurled, but my arms are looking a little tighter this Thursday morning. Who needs the gym. #makingapie
The last time I used my rolling pin, I hung a picture with it. It’s good with pictures. Before that, I used it to hold up a broken window sash. It’s good that way, too.
Pam’s little trick with parchment paper is sheer genius. Still, I didn’t end up so much with a round crust as a rectangular one. That’s what kitchen scissors are for.
Let’s talk filling. Mr. G, honey wanted a peach pie. A peach pie in the worst way. I’m sorry to say that the peaches in that wee basket were fibrous and without flavor. It happens. Weep a little for the peaches, then move along.
There was a crisper full of crisp, juicy Cortlands in the kitchen. I used a bunch of those. 6 cups worth. And then I threw caution to the wind and added a cup or two of wild blueberries. Blueberries found in the wild. I did a little magic with sugar and cinnamon and lemon and corn starch and a wee bit more butter. Mercy! Living the pie dream.
At last. It was time to perform the top crust voodoo. Let’s be clear. I am the weak link in the top-crust-voodoo chain. I have not conquered the fluted edge. I do not have fluted thumbs. I have green thumbs. I swears. They will not flute.
That’s when a fork comes in handy. I smashed my top and bottom crust edges together with a fork and did a little egg-wash thingy.
Into the oven went this apple/blueberry creation. All went as planned, but I did get a nasty finger burn trying to peek under the foil checking for flowing juices.
Come to mama.
This was, by far, the best pie I have ever made. I have to say, it’s Pam’s Pie Tutorial crust. God, help us all! Hie thee over.
Note: Those aren’t my eyebrows. Mine are not as finely arched…