The Pie Project

Post-holidays I feel like some kind of cave-dwelling creature just emerged into the sun, blinking and confused. It was worth it, though! The Guatemala trip was fabulous, alternately gritty and luxurious, and I ate my fill of homemade tortillas. M. was the best traveling companion ever. Not that I doubted she would be. The kitties are happy to have us back (our landlady, not so much) and I'm finally back in the gym and at the laptop. I hacked up the novel and now it awaits me, pitifully. Luckily I read Junot Diaz and Anne Enright while away and they fired me up. Now, to actually do it. The semester starts next week, too, with a new workshop and the Intro. to Drama class I'm teaching. That's right. The powers that be, in their infinite wisdom, switched my lit section on me. Really? Really. In six days I'm teaching Introduction To Drama. The last play I read was Hamlet. IN TENTH GRADE. I also started my new WITS teaching gig, which includes a bilingual classroom. That...

They would probably use corn. Maiz makes Guatemala go 'round (and accounts for approximately three million tortillas per person, per meal). Why is this on my mind? Because I'm going to Guate tomorrow, for ten days! Morgan has never been and I'm excited to show her around a bit. I worked on a coffee farm there, back in my Watson Fellow days ('03-'04) and have been back twice. Me encanta. We'll hit up the world's most beautiful lake, some highland towns, the colonial cloud city Xela, and my favorite coffee farm on the planet , ending up in ritzier Antigua for New Year's. I'll bring a notebook and a few t-shirts and not much else - hooray, simplicity. Okay, I'm bringing underwear, a fleece, and deodorant. But you get the idea. Anyway! If Guatemalans did make pie, they might also go for squash. It's one of the three sisters, after all, a New World staple. Making a pumpkin pie from scratch is an earthy, gooey experie nce that results in THE BEST p...

Oh my god. This is a British treat (those Brits...hmmm...) called Stargazy Pie. Get it? The fish are staring up at the stars. I lifted this pic from the ever lovely blog, The World Needs More Pie . I don't know if we need more of this pie, but it does fascinate/horrify me. It does occur to me I've yet to make a savory pie for this blog o' mine. Soon!

You could say I got them from my mom, who taught me to make crust in the first place, or from my aunts, who've overseen many a piemaking adventure. Or maybe from my maternal grandma, who grew up in Montana in a household full of women. She taught nursing at a community college for about a hundred years while juggling seven (!) kids. The woman is a little loopy on occasion, but wow, is she tough, and she can bake - I remember most her homemade fudge. But I owe a good deal of my baking love to my Grandpa Hugh. I never saw him make a pie; instead, he'd make my birthday cake every year. I salivated over the cake-from-a-box, yellowy and slathered with unholy green frosting. You probably don't know that pistachio Jell-O pudding + Cool Whip = addiction. This was the frosting of a union man whose yard was full of half-junked cars when my grandmother married him in the early eighties. Hugh was her second husband, officially my step-grandfather, though I only ever knew him as Grandpa...

Oh my god! How did I not know about this? Pushing Daisies, which has been recommended to me but which I haven't managed to watch (my TV watching has waned...my brain only has room for crime procedurals or Tina Fey, it seems) features PIE. The show is about - wait for it - a pie baker/shop owner who can bring people back from the dead. And some other quirky things. Point is, what, a show about pie? And I only find out about it as it's getting canceled? Damn. Oh well. At least I can try one of its recipes. The pie-making, dead-raising protagonist brings back his childhood crush, who proceeds to bake a delicious sounding Pear-Gruyere pie, featured here . Yum. I'm going to try it. Apparently, on the show, she makes it for her anxious aunts and includes crushed up anti-depressants, in hopes said aunts will medicate unknowingly. I gotta say, with my fair share of nutty relatives, I can understand the impulse. This got me thinking about all the pie featured in TV and film. I could...

If only figuring out my post graduation life were as simple as pie. I'm mildly obsessed with this right now. I'm applying for a slew of fellowships, which are like post-docs for those of us with MFA's. I'm sending stuff to all the biggies, including the famous Stegner, and all I can do is hope and wait. Meanwhile I need to focus on my novel - I blocked out the whole day for it but haven't worked on it much, somehow, though I did write my personal statement for the Stegner. The fellowships are Option #1 (red slice) followed by Option #2 (orange slice), which is a job-that-is-not-teaching, i.e., that will give me time to write. Museums? Grant writing? Policy? Option #3 (blue) is teaching at a community college, ideally full time (bone-crushing, much as I love teaching). Option #4 (green) is teaching at some kind of private high school, maybe. Option #5 (yellow) is applying for PhD programs, but that's another story. In the case of 2, 3, or 4, we'll probably ju...

There are no words, really. I can't stop being happy about this. I cried for an hour when he won. Finally! I've never felt proud of our leadership before - it's a strange, new, wonderful feeling. Also, this brings up the best kind of pie metaphor: sharing the pie. We could use more of that. I'm so glad our new President gets it, and that my fellow citizens actually believe it, too. In celebration, I want to bake! Well, this weekend, when I have time and am hosting the "slush" reading (of unsolicited manuscripts sent to our journal) at my house. Obama likes pecan, and sweet potato, and coconut cream. Witness this video... Hmmm...plotting.

I never knew about the gadgets designed to make the pie experience all it can be: pie weights, carriers, plates, crust protectors, servers, cookbooks ... yes, bakers can accessorize. Take this (L) for instance. It's an official pie carrier (and gift from Laurie!) These (R) are vintage pie plates from the '70s, which I adore. It's the frumpy church lady in me. My boss at the general store where I worked in high school is the last person I've ever known who honestly and wholeheartedly would have loved these pie plates. She and her husband scoured damp little towns for antiques every weekend. She also used to yell at me for not sweeping the floor mats enough, or not stocking exactly seven cans of pop per row. I rebelled by giving away the occasional pack of cigarettes to my friends and eating ice cream bars in the beer cooler. Ah, high school. Anyway ... vintage pie plates. Despite my better inclinations, I love them.

I'm celebrating my b-day morning with the window open to the rain and Nanci Griffith playing in the kitchen. The cool damp air and the music remind me of home and I would like to thank my family for growing me up and instilling in me the appreciation for treats. And for just being wonderfully loving, flawed, funny, and ever themselves. I miss them, though I've got great peeps here, too. Tonight it'll be margaritas and tres leches for my adult Texan life. As a kid it was either cake with Cool Whip frosting or whatever I requested, such as pineapple upside cake, which was not as delicious as the name promised, or pumpkin pie, which has never failed me. Hence, here's my tribute to the perfect birthday pie. (Click on the photo for a close-up of creamy goodness). I made this pie to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with friends this weekend. Who knew they had T-giving a whole six weeks earlier? I think I need to celebrate it from now on. After all, I grew up close to Canada. Y...

This is from a Nevada Obama supporter - because he's, well, as American as apple pie. Though his favorite pie is apparently pecan (really? I've always found it too candy-sweet, but okay, Obama, I'll try it for you). HE HAS TO WIN. I don't usually get so emotional about politics, unless you count sobbing after both the 2000 and 2004 elections, but I'm feelin' it now. I'd make a hundred gazillion pies with his name on them and pass them out to neighbors if I thought it would help! Hmmm. Not a bad idea...

When I am not making any pie. I did make some delicious cherry cornmeal scones, but I can't write about that, it's treason. So maybe I'll just write about my life and try to figure out a clever pie-related lens through which to view it. If you can't tell from that last sentence, I'm pretty immersed in academia. Scrolling around online reading interviews with writers about who can tell whose stories, about "post-gay fiction," about identity politics. Love this stuff. Makes me feel like there's so much more to learn. I'm also writing comments on my fiction students' exercises (oh, man...) and working on a review about a Salvadorean novel for the VQR Young Reviewer's Contest. Is any of this about baking yet? Don't worry. I'm getting there. It's been a big week, with turning in the first draft of my novel, and the reading I got to do at a lovely wonderful hipster/dive bar . I was nervous no one in the buzzed crowd would pay attentio...

Cat Cora makes pie dough from scratch! I knew she would. (Click on link for video). She's perfect in so many ways. For instance, she's gay. And she's a famous chef. And she's out, and a mom, and gorgeous. What more can I say?

We survived the hurricane! Trees are down, power is mostly out, there is a huge line for gas and available groceries - but who are we kidding? Most of Houston is lucky. It's the coast I'm feeling really sorry for. When the national news says "disaster, supplies are running low," they really mean, people are mad because their steaks are going bad in the freezer and it's hard to get coffee or cable. It's uncomfortable, but we have roofs. M. and I actually have power, by some miracle - so I could even make a pie, if I wanted, which I don't, because despite everything I just said, there's something about a hurricane that sobers you up. Well, not literally sober - everyone is passing the time drinking warm beer. Yesterday after a long drive we found an open convenience store and bought wine for cash in the pitch dark. So, yeah. Life could be worse. Pix to come!

Your daily dose of potassium is hiding underneath here... I hate to say it, but there's not one. A pie diet, I mean. I guess I could stop baking them altogether, but really, writers are not rational thinkers like that. My id loves pie. I will keep making it. I've got to have motivation other than my tastebuds, though. So this banana cream pie was an exercise in restraint: I baked, whipped, layered, and sent it out the door intact. It was hard! I kept thinking, I should taste it for scientific purposes. I've never made a banana cream before. Etcetera. But in the end, I didn't touch it. I survived. I did get compliments from the eaters, who said it was like "the most delicious banana pudding you ever ate," plus a graham cracker crust. The custard bit was hardest; I might not have cooked it long enough. It never quite gelled, despite hours of refrigeration. Still, what's not to love about homemade vanilla pudding and ripe, sweet bananas? Comfort food, for sur...

I am unreasonably emotional about the gymnastics last night - Alicia Sacramone, my favorite, fell twice and looked ready to cry. She said after it was her fault they didn't win (though the numbers say otherwise), and I teared up myself. I know how it feels to be your own worst critic. And that situation is pretty much my nightmare - you work hard for something for so long and just when everyone's watching, you mess it up. I guess it's like getting terrible reviews. It'd be worse, I suppose, to never make it at all - to never pursue your passions. High risk, high reward, huh? I can't help making all these parallels to the writing life. Not that throwing yourself into the MFA is the same as trying for an Olympic medal. The odds might be similar, though, if you're talking good publication. Which brings me around to what I'm always telling myself, that success is relative, that success has to be internal just as much, if not more, than external. I saw Joan Didio...

I have so many pies under my belt - um, literally and figuratively - from this past month I hardly know where to start. My hometown had a salmon bake that featured 100 homemade fruit pies, slices plopped into little paper boats and crowded onto plastic tables. I made a mixed berry they didn't even use, they had so many. After sampling several I'm pretty proud of my own pie. Well, my crust. The whole crust-is-key thing was confirmed. Thick and brittle? No. Blanched by shortening? Better but also bad. That's not to say I had crust success all the time. I overconfidently skimped on water and ended up with barely roll-able crumbly messes. I had to patch like crazy. My OCD cousin had a conniption as one crust broke into a gajillion pieces on folding. Still, I didn't care very much about appearances. Of baked goods or my own self. It's not that I'm a fashionista - ha! - but I wear eyeliner every day and fuss over the amount of space between jeans and waistline. At hom...

There's a reason I've been slow to post lately - I'm west of Seattle (yes, there is something west of Seattle), land of intermittent internet connections. The north Kitsap Peninsula contains trees, salmon, old loggers, new yuppies, rocky beaches, tons of berry bushes, my huge family, and hundreds of pie bakers. I come back here and I'm put in my place. Of course you make the crust from scratch. And my family will tell me if there's too much cinnamon or the filling is undercooked in the middle. They like my pies, don't get me wrong, but it's a far cry from the city kids I usually eat with. Turns out I'm a bit of city kid myself when I get back; the lazy days and long drive to the grocery store (well, to anything) throw me off at first. Then I adjust. I don't go online, I wander the seaweed-y beach, I tromp around for hours searching out berries ... I couldn't live like this all the time, but it's pretty good stuff for a couple weeks. Morgan an...

Making pie makes me happy. That's probably obvious. But really, it gives me that all-is-well, everything-in-its-time, you're-okay feeling. I suppose it's about the zen-like focus a pie takes and the basic pleasure of creation. Or, the fact that I associate pie with the best of my childhood: big family, big forest, small town. Speaking of which, I'm off to WA on Monday for more summer fruit pie glory. Blackberry (two kinds), strawberry-rhubarb, cherry, and maybe, if I'm persistent with my pickin' fingers, huckleberry. They snap in your mouth like tangy little firecrackers and damn, they make great pie. As a kid, I wasn't often rolling out flaky crust - I was more about adventuring into "sticker bushes" to collect berries than pie construction. But still, getting flour all over my hands, the smell of fresh cut fruit, brings me back. It's such a simple, summery indulgence. Lately, I've made a peach raspberry and an apple crumble pie. Both lusc...

I just ordered this book from Amazon. Three hundred pie recipes plus a bajillion different kinds of crust from a bigger pie aficionado than me. Just what I needed! I'll pair this with the trusty J.O.C. (Joy of Cooking) to reach pie nirvana. Pie-vana? I probably need to stop with the pie puns. I almost titled this post Piecrastination... I really, really, really want to write about pie crust. But I'm up early for a reason, and it's not this blog. The coffee is fresh. Novel, here I come. I'm rusty after a long weekend away, and dragging my feet. It's hard not to treat writing like punishment, sometimes. But - that's the best way to kill it. I'm trying for the positive it's-just-creation (like pie) attitude. So, here I go: Word document, open.

I'm visiting M's relatives in big-hair, down-home Dallas , and talked with her grandma, Martha, about pie. Lemon chiffon was her mom's speciality: "she'd fluff up those egg whites and fold 'em in." But not Martha. Seventy and as feminist as anyone at my women's college, she buys pie from the Kroger's freezer if she wants one. We moved from pie to women doctors and she said in her time you didn't hear about them. "Why?" She snorted. "Because they were all at home, baking pie!" My own grandma is a northern version of Martha. She appreciates a homemade pie, but she'd just as soon order something frozen from the Schwan 's truck. For her generation, baking a pie is synonymous with keeping a woman in her place. Maybe they wouldn't say it quite like that, but I can't help thinking they might. I also think of my old professors, second-wave feminists who couldn't believe the retro attitudes of their "third-wa...