“Mom, I had an epiphany in health class, and you were right.”
“Duh. About what?”
“It turns out, I can’t eat store-bought cookies and stuff. I need to learn how to bake.”
Trumpets blare in the background, heralding my success.
“Told you so.”
You see, that’s how this blog started. I wanted to bake cookies with Snarky Daughter, but she wouldn’t help. Then, two hours later, with the scent of cookies wafting upstairs, down comes She Who Can’t Be Bothered, to eat the fruits of my labor. I don’t think so.
“You didn’t want to bake them, you don’t get to eat them. And by the way, it’s time you and your brother learn how to cook. I’m not sending you out into the world without skills, so you’re going to cook once a week. And then you’re going to blog about it.”
Or not. But they have been cooking semi-regularly. Scout Son became my baker; Snarky Daughter my chef.
So I was thrilled when I learned I was right and she was going to have to learn to bake. In our house, I may not know what’s for dinner, but I can bake a cake/cookies on any day.
Vegetables? Meh. Chocolate chips and butter? Always in the house. The chips are ideally purchased in five-pound bags. Isn’t it that way in your house?
Continuing on in the You Were Right Conversation:
“What do you want to make?”
“Um, cookies?”
“Really? We’ve been talking a lot about pie lately.”
“Pie would be good. But isn’t pie hard?”
“Not if you understand the chemistry going on. Besides, if you can make pie, you can make anything.”
Nothing like trial by fire.
A few days later, armed with butter, brown sugar, spices and pounds of apples, I explain the secret to pie crust. Time. And freezing a lot of the ingredients to stop the formation of gluten.
Four hours later, Snarky Daughter pulled the Perfect French Apple Pie out of the oven. Can I just tell you how awesome this pie was? No, there aren’t words. But it was better than some dates I’ve had.
It was phenomenal. Right up to the moment I went to put it in the refrigerator and watched, horrified, as it slid off the cookie sheet and crashed to the floor. The ceramic pie pan shattered.
Yes, I did look at a four-inch piece of flaky, joyous crust and wonder if it was bad form to pick it up and eat it off the floor. I also wondered if we could pick through the ceramic splinters liberally scattered throughout the filling.
It took about twenty minutes of cleaning up to realize I wasn’t so upset about the loss of pie, as it was the loss of this pie. The first pie. The perfect pie. I literally stood there calculating how long it would take me to make another pie (duh, four hours). And what I could put it in since, you know, my pie pan was toast. And finally realized I was upset because it was Snarky Daughter’s First Pie that I killed.
I made another pie in an emergency pie pan two days later. It wasn’t the same. And now I’m on a search for another ceramic deep dish pie pan. Because practice makes perfect.
