Pavanne for a Peach Pie

One of my non-literary goals this month was to make a from-scratch peach pie. A modest goal, right? Well, maybe if you are one of those people who "don't cook," a far-reaching one.

A million years ago when I started working in Cambridge's Kendall Square, when the new T station was a hole in the ground, and the the pile drivers for the Marriott hotel were making the next door building where I worked jump and shudder, the lunch-bunch gang explored the various neighborhood places to eat. Nearby was Vinnie's sub shop and Alexander's Cafeteria, along with the infamous F + T, both a diner and a restaurant. Then further afield we discovered Michaela's which had a carryout place and a restaurant. Michaela later opened Rialto and became famous, but I'll never forget how she combined odd ingredients and brought if off to riff off one's tastebuds in the most amazing way. Think of chucks of beef filet, sweet potatoes, red onions and corn, together with excellent seasonings. The cafe with it's glass ceiling was sunny in the summer and sometimes Edward Land or a Kennedy popped in.

Another spot a bit further afield, at the One Kendall complex was the Woven Hose, now the Blue Room. The Woven Hose was a kind of high class cafeteria during the lunch hour, and one day they had a home made peach pie that defined the genre, so to speak. God, was it good, and I am speaking as the granddaughter of a Kansas cook who understood pie in her bones. The Woven Hose Peach Pie was the Platonic Form of Peach Pie. The next time I returned and asked about it, was told that cook had left. No more peach pie.

A few years later, during peach season, at a truck stop in Newton Kansas that had a good reputation locally, I bought a piece of peach pie out of the case. Ye Gods and Little Fishes was it awful. Canned peaches and half a box of cornstarch and we don't even want to talk about the crust. I took a couple bites and left.

Then came the great peach pie drought, and then one day a few summers ago a recipe in Cook's Illustrated. Looked awfully good. Cut it out. I worked a zillion hours a week and tried to write, to put a decent dinner on the table, garden, do family and friend stuff, and there was never time to bake that pie.

Now "retired," this was the season. Bought some big lucious peaches on sale, and checked the ingredients list. Everything else in the pantry or fridge. Yesterday was the day. Recipe was long and called for a few techniques I had never used, such as freezing the cubes of butter, and adding the water and mashing with a spatula. Detailed instructions on the lattice crust. Read the recipe a couple times first so as not to commit a "Dummheit." Peaches perfectly ripe.
Got to work. Crust malleable and everything went off without a hitch. Into the oven. Out of the oven. Perfection. We had to wait two hours before eating. Anticipation.

Was it as good as I remembered? Well, maybe not quite but it was damned good, and the crust was truly excellent. We checked around the neighborhood for another couple to share with, but everyone was out on Saturday night. Their loss.

For me this was kind of a big deal as I don't make a lot of pies and sometimes take a short cut with store bought crust. My grandma made pies every week in the summer, without a recipe, her plump deft hands rolling the dough, and the fruit, sugar and seasonings going into the crust and in and out of the oven and pie for lunch, leftover for dinner. Personally, I like pie for breakfast but held off this morning out of deference to my waistline.

If you have leftover crust, make a little extra dessert with butter, sugar and cinnamon and it will taste really good. You really shouldn't eat all that raw dough anyhow. Here's to Peach Pie in the summer and Blueberry Pie and Strawberry Rhubarb Pie and all things delicious.

Onward,

Grapeshot