The Perils of Pie, Part 2

AS A WAY TO BRING the happiness back into our family’s world of pie, I suggested that my mother and I do a joint project: enter a local pie-baking contest. I’m competitive when it comes to board games, but not so much to contests with judges and juries; I kind of assumed she’d beat me, and the world of pie would be returned to its axis. Best-laid plans…

I really thought the contest would be a way for us to bond, I swear; a means to repair the pie tension created this summer. But we didn’t talk much about our planned pies over the next couple of weeks; she graciously mailed my entry form in for me as I was on my way out of town, and thoughtfully bought the disposable pie plates we’d need. (My mom is an ace at taking care of details I’m more likely to ignore until the 11th, or 11th-and-a-half, hour. This is only one of the reasons why it can be great to live with your mom, even when you’re 43 years old.)

I planned to start baking the night before the pies were due at Hancock Shaker Village (if you’re in our neck of the woods, a beautiful and historic spot worth a visit for anyone interested in American history, farming and gardening, and especially for families, as their collection of heritage breed farm animals is entrancing for kids). I got home at 9:00 from “Parent Night” at school, thinking I would make and chill my crust.

I had neglected to buy flour.

Oops. I left a note for my mom, who was still at work. “If you have any extra flour, could you leave it in the kitchen for me?” She did (there’s that bailing-out thing) and at 6:00 the next morning, before I make breakfasts or packed lunches, I made the crust. Then I left for a meeting at school, dashed to a class I’m taking, and ran home at 1 p.m. Kids had to be picked up at 3:00; pies dropped off between 3:00 and 5:00.

I had an hour and a half to make, bake, and pack a pie. I peeled, grated, tossed and rolled, and somehow, by 2:25, I was packing my still-hot pie into a cardboard box. I offered to drop my mother’s pie off, too, but she asked if she could ride along.

“Of course!”

The pie contest WAS turning into the bonding experience I hoped for; I had complimented the aroma of her pie that had greeted me when I returned home to bake my own, and told her (sincerely) that I was sure she’d win. (The River, by the way, upon learning that I was competing against my own mother in the contest, had just this to say: “You’re doomed.” He loves his grandma, and her pie.)

“I’ll pack yours, too,” I offered.

“Ummm…OK.” She seemed concerned, but we both ignored her hesitation. Until, that is, I gently placed her pie into my jury-rigged carrying case, and broke off a 4-inch hunk of crust. I turned the color of my forgotten flour.

“I’m so sorry, Mom. Maybe I can fix it…”

“It’s OK.” She was steely, but not flashing fire.

“Ohhh…” I agonized.

“Drop it.”

We climbed into the car and began our mad dash for kids and pie. I delivered both pies while Mom waited. They were tagged with anonymous numbers, and I even managed to gently repair the damage I’d done to my mom’s crust.

Saturday afternoon, our plan was to grab lunch, then hit the fair to learn the results.

“Mom will win, I’m sure,” I said.

This was sincere, by the way. I am good at pie; my mom is great. I learned at the rolling pin of the master, and though I’ve been practicing a lot this year (and have finally, FINALLY, found a crust that works for me, every time) I never believe my mother when she says lately that I’m getting to be better than she is.

We thought we’d be on time for the announcement, but as we were arriving, I saw a friend leaving. She’d been a judge (remember, the pies were anonymous!) “You won third prize, Paige!” I glanced over my shoulder at my mom, a few paces behind me, out of earshot.

“What about her mother?” my husband asked, anxiously.

“Hmmm,” Marilyn pondered. She didn’t know, but was sure that the winner of first place was from Vermont. Surely, I thought, my mother was second.

You can guess the rest. Mom didn’t place. We had hoped to try the winning pie, but it was long gone, and so after a quick tour, during which I felt mostly anxious instead of victorious, and my mother, cold, retired to the gift shop, we headed home. That night, Mom baked banana bread.

Will she ever make me a pie again?

Meanwhile, if you’d like to recreate it, here’s my prize-winning, family-drama-creating recipe, adapted from a truly great cookbook, Hudson Valley Mediterranean, by Laura Pensiero.

(Special thanks to Lesley Ann Beck of Berkshire Living for the photo, which shows my mother’s pie, gorgeous and delectable, in the foreground.)

Third-Place Pie

3 cups all-purpose flour
18 tablespoons sweet butter, cut into 1/2 pieces, cold (for best results, use Plugra European-style butter)
1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt
1 teaspoon sugar
1/2 cup freshly squeezed orange juice (cold)
6-7 large apples, peeled
1 pint fresh raspberries
1/2 cup plus 2 T sugar
2 teaspoons freshly grated ginger
grated rind of 2 medium oranges
1 egg, separated, the yolk beaten

In the bowl of a standing mixer, combine flour, salt and sugar. Turn the mixer on low for a second to mix. Add butter, and turn the mixer (using the paddle, not the whisk) on low. When the butter is beginning to incorporate into the flour, and the pieces are the size of peas, add the orange juice. Continue to mix on low a tiny bit longer, just until the dough holds together. Divide the dough into two equal pieces, and shape each into a flattened disk about 6 inches in diameter and an inch thick. Wrap in plastic wrap and chill for at least 30 minutes.

Rinse the raspberries and spread out on paper towels (on plates or a baking sheet) to dry. Sprinkle with the 2 tablespoons of sugar.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Peel, core and slice apples. (I like  them 1/4-inch thick.) Toss the apples with the ginger, orange peel and remaining sugar. Add berries and very gently combine.

Roll out the bottom crust until just under 1/4-inch thick and place in a deep-dish pie plate. Brush with egg white. Add fruit, roll out top crust to same thickness and place atop pie. Crimp edges, cut a steam vent into the top, and brush the top with beaten egg yolk (if it’s too thick, stir in a few drops of water.)

Bake 45-50 minutes until golden brown.

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