I made five pies for Thanksgiving this year: four pumpkin and
one apple; two with store-bought crusts, and three homemade.
I made five pies for Thanksgiving this year: four pumpkin and one apple; two with store-bought crusts, and three homemade.
Crust has always been a battle for me, so much so that the phrase “easy as pie” seems a cruel joke. The dough is always too sticky. Unless it’s too dry. It clings to the rolling pin. Or breaks into puzzle pieces. Or refuses to roll out thin enough. Or there is not enough dough, although the recipe claims to make two crusts. The edge defies my efforts at fluting or crimping, ending up resembling a geological phenomenon rather than a culinary effort. Then the edge will burn. Or the bottom will be soggy. Or all of the above.
This year the first crust went together so easily that I wondered what I was doing right. I used the same mixer I have used for the past decade, and the same recipe that came with the mixer. But this year the dough formed pea sized balls on schedule, and, right at the suggested number of tablespoonfuls of ice water, abandoned the sides of the bowl and curled itself obediently into one large ball.
Of all the balls I chilled for 15 minutes, only one rolled away to hide in the icy recesses of the freezer – and I ferreted it out. All the balls flattened themselves out meekly between sheets of waxed paper, folded themselves into quarters and snuggled down into their respective pie plates.
The edges accepted being crimped and fluted; perhaps not things of beauty, but still perfectly acceptable. Most importantly, the pies tasted good.
A thought crossed my mind while I was rolling out the second crust that that gave me a clue as to what had changed. I found myself wishing as I rolled and pressed with repeated passes, that I could take my dough balls into ceramics class and roll them under the slab roller.
Aha! Ever since the first week of September, I have been taking ceramics at Gavilan. Jane Rekadal handed us each a ball of clay the first day, which we had to pinch and poke and prod into pinch pots. Since that day, we have thrown on the wheel, made slab boxes, glazed, slipped, scored, fired and sculpted. For at least 80 hours I have persuaded dough-like clay bodies to behave in a seemly fashion. No wonder my pie crust minded me.
I am enjoying my ceramics class. First, I get to play in the mud. Second, I always wanted to learn how to use a potter’s wheel. Third, the process of learning ceramics is totally unlike the any other area of my life right now: it is radically different from writing columns or teaching math or teaching my daughter to drive.
Most importantly, for the first time in 22 years I am doing something completely frivolous for no reason at all except that I want to. Don’t get me wrong. I have thoroughly enjoyed raising pedigreed children at home in my spare time. It has been a 22-year sabbatical from being a wage slave.
I am very grateful to have had the opportunity to spend long hours on the beach with my kids, and in the woods with my kids, and at the sidelines of soccer fields watching my kids. I have gone to Civil War reenactments and Renaissance Faire and art museums and horse shows and tide pools and leadership camp and the snow and zoos and concerts because of my kids. I have had a blast.
But increasingly as they grew older, the choices of where to go and what to do were made by the kids. I tagged along and had fun. Often I had so much fun and the activity was so intrinsically rewarding that it was easy to forget who had made the choice.
Ceramics is my choice. In one and a half years, my baby will be going away to college, and I will be going back to work. My pots are, shall we say, more whimsical than saleable. This is my last chance to do something that has absolutely no purpose to it at all. Except that my pie crust was exceptionally good this year.week.
