I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m a-scared of pie crust. Pie crust is my Achilles Heel, my bete noir, the monster under my bed. Who knows how these things get started? When I was a teenager, I baked apples in glittering, sugary crusts and skipped on my merry way, but somewhere along the line, I tripped over my own feet and fell face first into a twenty-year pie crust phobia. Let me tell you two somethings about that:
1. That is a real shame: just about any half-assed breakfast, lunch or dinner becomes 100% less half-assed when baked into a decent tender, flaky crust and that includes sushi;
2. Oh. My. God. What could be more uncool than a PIE CRUST PHOBIA?
Yesterday, I measured out some pastry flour, cut in butter and hydrated the whole mess with cold water, but because I can’t follow a recipe to save my life I also added lemon peel and ground ginger. The dough rested in my fridge for half an hour, then I made a tart out of fruit we’d jarred. After baking, I glazed the tart with lemon squash jam. Pete and I sampled slices of the tart dressed with homemade yogurt mixed with cinnamon and brown sugar. It was okay, but I don’t like tarts.Tonight, I rolled the second ball of dough, cut it into six pieces, rolled and cut circles. I stuffed them with leftover sweet potatoes mixed with egg, cinnamon, ginger and fresh nutmeg, buttered the outside and sprinkled chunky sugar crystals over top. While I have at least temporarily conquered my fear of pie crust and banished nightmares of broken pie crusts past, I have – alas – not become a better photographer. This picture sucks. The little pie things are both humble and pretty, but in this image they appear to be having their own personal earthquakes – or I am.
Many actions have unintended consequences. I want to make things in pie crusts, even things I don’t actually want to eat. But I could and then what? And after that?