A New Year

I turned 28 yesterday. At this point in my life, especially since I  live so far away from the vast majority of my friends, birthdays really are just another day and yesterday was no exception. In fact, we lost an hour of my birthday to daylight saving time, it snowed three or so heavy inches the night before which made my commute home from my parents' take an extra 40 minutes, I worked more than I played  (yes, I know it was a Sunday) and I capped the night off alone watching an HBO documentary about the 1980 USA hockey team since Andy was off at a sports show for work and didn't arrive home until the wee morning hours today.

Okay, so maybe the start of my 29th year doesn't sound terribly great on paper, but I assure you I had a perfectly lovely day.

For one thing, I'm rather glad to have missed out on being a member of the 27 club. Whew! My brother did subtly point out to me yesterday that I perhaps have not lived my life in notorious enough of a manner to rank up there with Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Amy Winehouse even if I had met an untimely demise last year. You know what? I'm okay with that.

Honestly, I'm kind of excited about 28. I've always had a fondness for the number 8. My hockey jersey numbers were 8 and 18 and I remember both of those ages fondly. At eight I totally rocked the second and third grades (advanced reading group, holler) and met the love of my life (#notreallyelementaryschoolsweethearts), while eighteen brought my first trip overseas (hello lover, erm, London) , high school graduation and the start of college. So even if this belief is somewhat delusional, I feel as though 28 might just serve up something big, exciting, and wonderful. Maybe? Just maybe? Maybe not?

I've been hearing via the blogosphere that our 20s end up being our time for searching, stretching, and well, more often than we'd like to admit, struggling. Now our 30s on the other hand (or so I'm told) is when we really get to settle in and thrive. So although I have a few years (okay, two) to go before hitting the big 3-0, I do feel that I'm getting closer to a point in my life where I can settle down a little bit and enjoy the fruits of my labor. At least I hope so, because I rather loudly proclaimed to a colleague yesterday morning, "I'm tired of making hay!" in response to the infamous "make hay while the sun shines" quip.

I think we all get a bit weary of making hay every now and then. Last week my motivation tanked and decided to throw myself a little pity party over the fact that I live in the forest far, far away from the rest of my friends. (I may spend a little too much time alone in the winter.) But this week is not only a new week, but a new year for me, so I'm planning to head forth with a better attitude and a deeper acknowledgement of the beauty around me.

The amaryllis we received last Christmas is blooming again

At 9 p.m. last night, when I was telling myself, you have to work, you don't get to paint your toenails, I thought what the heck, it is my birthday. Just paint your toenails already. Maybe 28 will see me letting go of my delusion that I can and will work 14 hour days and then being consistently disappointed in myself for failing my lofty and unattainable performance goals? We can hope.

I'm sure this color (cranberry cream) was very trendy when I bought it in 2001

I spent the weekend with my parents watching the boys state high school hockey tournament (and a fair amount of Parks and Recreation in between games). Although none of the northern teams came out on top, I had a great time introducing my parents to the wonder of Twitter during the game - it was pretty fun to watch #thetourney trending away.

Oh, there was birthday key lime pie too yesterday. If you want proof of just how old I am, please note that I expressly requested a large piece of pie at my birthday dinner which . . . I could not finish. What is the world coming to?!

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There's Something About Pie

Fresh baked pies (cherry/cranberry and peach) waiting to head over to the pie and ice cream social at work today

"What is it about pies," Andy asked the other night. "Why do people go so nuts over them?"

Where he works, they're in the habit of providing their week-long stays with a pie. In the years that Andy's worked at the business, they've gone through a series of pie-bakers. (I suppose if we didn't live in the woods, we might go so far as to call them "pastry chefs.") One baker made pies that were too sweet and goop-y (instant pudding has no place in a pie shell, I say), another had trouble achieving an affordable wholesale price, the last had a severe gluten allergy that made assembling pie crusts rather tricky. In the end, the business opted to go the frozen, pre-made pie route, buying the pies directly from a wholesale restaurant supplier. But homemade or "home-baked," the guests don't care. They just want their pie.

What is it about pies?

I'm hard-pressed to think of another common dessert that strikes more fear in many of even the most experienced bakers' hearts. You're either a pie baker or you're not, although these days, with the advent of frozen and pre-made pie crusts, many non-pie bakers can limp along admirably. But despite the fact that many bakers would rather serve cake, cobbler, cookies, anything but pie for dessert, pie remains the ultimate in all-American desserts. (Keeping in mind, of course, that apple pie isn't really American - it's English, don't you know.)
    
A pie's complexity lies in its simplicity. More often than not, it's just two layers of pastry with some sort of fruit filling in between it. But a beautiful pie can quickly turn to disappointment if the crust doesn't flake when cut in or the pie filling spills out in a puddle when served.

I didn't really come from a pie eating family. My grandmother was well known for her fresh berry pies, which involved fresh fruit placed in a vegetable oil pie crust and covered with a Jell-O glaze. The fresh strawberry pie (which my brother still requests for his birthday) was delicious . . . the fresh blueberry pie with lemon Jell-O glaze remains a memorable flop. My mother's fear of pie crust meant most pies I ate as a little girl had a crumb topping, so she could avoid the hassle of a top crust. It wasn't until I discovered pie baking at age 13 that pies started be served with some regularity at home.

If you asked me if pie was my favorite dessert, I'd probably tell you "no." Ice cream and cheesecake rank above pie in my book. But when it comes to birthday treats - both those I request and those I bake for others - I find I gravitate towards pie. Key lime for me, please, molasses bourbon pecan for Andy, pumpkin or cherry for Dad.

You can't make a good pie without confidence and a bit of love for the craft. I once told an apprehensive pie baker that the secret to good pie crust was "telling the pie crust how good it was going to be the whole time you're making it." Oh and time. It doesn't take that long to roll out a homemade pie, but you just wouldn't want to rush a good pie.

So what is about pies?

I think a good pie conjures up a warm, fuzzy feeling of nostalgia and love. A good pie speaks of a slower pace of life, when there was time to futz about in the kitchen, when people worked hard enough to have their pie and eat it each evening, when ingredients were fresh and locally sourced, when our chief worry about what was going in our mouths was how it tasted.

 

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A Visit from the Easter Bunny

I hope everyone had a wonderful Easter/Passover holiday this weekend. I spent all weekend worrying about meringue and as a result, I'm having some difficulty adjusting to the real-world projects, concerns, and tasks that come with Mondays. (Sadly, I have yet to make a living wage worrying about if the relative humidity will be too high for meringue to set properly.) 

For the record, the lemon meringue pie was a success and didn't warrant all the worry I threw at it. My meringue had a teensy bit of shrinkage and just a touch of weeping on the top. If you're ever wanting to tackle a lemon meringue pie, there's a fantastic tutorial over at the Not So Humble Pie blog that's definitely worth checking out.

Other than (literally) whipping up the pie, I spent the Easter holiday going for a long walk with my parents at the nearby nature center, then sitting down to a delicious Easter feast prepared by my mom, Andy's mom and yours truly. Because I'm a bad blogger, I didn't take any pictures and since everything was devoured with great enthusiasm, there weren't even leftovers to photograph. (Well, there were, but I ate them.) It was a lovely day. 

The Easter bunny made a surprise visit at the cabin.  This picture doesn't do it justice, but my Easter "basket" is made out of recycled candy wrappers. Not sure if it's an Ecoist, Nahui Ollin or what, kind of bag - the Easter bunny snipped off its tag -- but I'm pretty pumped about it since my current tote bag's handles are turning into a frayed mess.

The bag was filled with all sorts of good stuff: a spring-y scarf, lovely soap, chocolate, and this little lady to join my springtime decorations:

The Easter bunny also brought a TracPhone which will be put to good use during my upcoming travels since I've been without a cell phone contract for nearly a year now.  Don't worry friends, I'm back in the 21st century now . . . sort of.

I woke up to find a dusting of snow on the ground. I thought for sure it would be gone by this afternoon, but it's still coming down. I'm so . . . enthused.

These guys don't seem to be minding the snowfall.I have peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, kohlrabi and an assortment of flowers all poking up now. I'll do a second planting at the end of the week.

I'm trying to focus this week and get some extra work done, since the traditional "end of the winter" travels are nigh. I had a mini freak-out this morning when I realized I'm just over a month away from going back to work full time again. On the bright side, that means the Ireland trip is just a year away.  Time to get a fare alert set up on Kayak. . . .

Hope you're having a happy Easter Monday. How did you celebrate this weekend? Who has spring travel plans?

 

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Pie Confessions

So here I sit, sinking my teeth into a bite of banana creme pie leftover from my birthday. I do like me some banana creme pie and I haven't had it in years, but there's another reason why I requested it when my mom asked me what sweet treat I'd like for my birthday. I requested banana creme pie because Andy said he didn't like it.

You see, I'm usually a key lime pie sort of girl when it comes to birthday treats. But apparently Andy is a key lime pie sort of boy and whenever there's a key lime pie in the house, it has a mysterious way of disappearing. When I go into the fridge, expecting to find a third of a key lime pie, I find the plastic wrap all akimbo over the pie plate and a miniscule piece of pie with fork tine grooved sides tipped over in a pile of crust crumbs.

It's no secret that Andy and I are good eaters. Despite being 8 inches shorter and many pounds lighter than Andy, I can often match Andy bite for bite during meals. ((Bless you, metabolism.) But that all changes when everything gets tucked in the fridge and the kitchen light goes out for the night. Andy is the kind of person who thinks nothing of going into the fridge "after hours" to scoop out cold forkfuls of whatever he pleases. If he's especially fond of whatever was cooked for dinner, he'll eat it for breakfast and lunch the next day.

This "no rules" eating shocked me in the early days of our relationship. How could a 9x13 pan of lasagna, enchiladas, or what have you, be gone in less than 24 hours? I was raised in house where dinner was, and still is, a structured event. Leftovers were expected to be reheated and served for dinner at a later date and under no circumstances were you to eat those leftovers before that designated date unless you were specifically invited to. But when I moved in with Andy, leftovers go a lot less civilized. I learned that if you wanted a second piece, by gum, you were going to have to fight for it.

Things have calmed down a bit as we enter our late 20s. Entrees that used to last mere hours, now stretch out over two or three days.  Still, it's not unusual for me to grab the doggie bag I brought home the night before and find 2/3 of the contents gone when I go to eat it at lunchtime.

They say it's a dog eat dog world out there, but around here, it's boyfriend eat doggie bag world.

For my birthday this year, I wanted a truce. I wanted a temporary end to the angry squealing that ensues when I opened up the fridge door and viewed the latest leftover carnage. So here it is, four days after the pie's creation and I'm polishing off the final piece of banana creme pie on my schedule.

Honestly, this whole banana creme pie has been kind of dull. It's not much fun not sharing and anymore I think food tastes better when you've used wile to obtain it.

But never fear, the leftover games begin again tomorrow.

 

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Thank Goodness for Mailboxes and Pies

I forgot it was going to snow yesterday. Maybe because Wednesday was sunny, glorious and subsequently cold: so cold in fact, that Andy and I spent a good portion of the evening watching the outside thermometer dip down below zero. But when I got up yesterday and saw the temperature had risen to 20 degrees outside, I knew something was up. Sure enough, all yesterday I looked out the window and saw nothing but white: the far shore of the lake disappeared in a howling swirl of wind and snowflakes.

On Wednesday, I also had a great writing day with Rose & Co. As we sat around the table working on our writing prompts, Rose set about writing a short story about “woe.” In the story, she artfully described all the ways we keep ourselves miserable during the winter months. You know: no exercise, too much chocolate, dwelling on the darkness and cold, staying up too late and subsequently starting our days too late.

The story struck a chord.

After a blah, blah, blah snowy November, I’ve tried avoiding woe this December. That means throwing myself into work, adopting a nearly daily exercise routine and not “eating my feelings.”

But oh when it’s blustery and cold and snowy, it’s hard to make yourself go outside.

Luckily, yesterday I had to go outside. The wintery weather had pretty much depleted our wood rack inside and I needed to fill it. And then there’s the mailbox, the hallowed mailbox. The possibility of mail waiting for me in the mailbox each afternoon is so alluring, it gets me outside making the mile-long round trip out to the mailbox even on days like yesterday when I was so bundled up you could just see my eyes peering out from between my hat and my scarf.

I finished my work hours for the week early yesterday and this felt like a major accomplishment. (Never mind the gazillion other “to-do” commitments I need to address before the week’s done). When I got back from filling the wood box and getting the mail, I couldn’t stand the thought of parking myself in front of the computer again. So I thought to myself: “I’m going to bake a pie.”

Regardless of your feelings about the overall quality of the movie Waitress, I adore the idea of
baking pies as therapy. And yesterday baking a pie full of blueberry loved seemed like a really good idea.

It was a good idea.

Sometimes life needs to be simplified if we’re to escape woe’s clutches. Things like Christmas cards arriving from faraway friends and or making a flakey pie crust while filling the house with the wonderful smell of baked goods are perfect antidotes to winter woe.

Just one more reason why life is better with butter.

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Take A Taste

The rain came this week and with it went most motivation around the cabin. When you wake up at six in the morning to the creak of the wood stove door opening, the crackle of kindling being split in half, and the thunk of birch wood inside the stove, it’s pretty easy to snuggle a little deeper under the comforter to catch just a couple more minutes of sleep. So much for those fall goals, eh?

Still, we’re slowly hecking towards progress around here, despite an increased inclination to curl up at night with a good book or a bit of knitting and Ken Burns’s National Parks documentary. Last night Andy stayed out until well after dark, shingling the shed. On Wednesday, I went through all my bins of “stuff” stored at my parents, sorting out what I actually want to keep and what’s ready to find a new home. I ended up keeping 5 bins while 5 more bins are ready to go. Hello garage sale . . . . Tuesday was a decent writing day, although the week as a whole could have been much, much better. There’s been no easing into fall 2010, it just came in a rush through the door and I think we’re all still a little flabbergasted that summer is O-V-E-R.

One sure sign of fall here on the Gunflint Trail is the Taste of the Gunflint Trail event. Last year, I spent the days leading up to “Taste” baking a dozen loaves of “bubble” bread for Andy’s work place. Last night I came home and baked two blueberry pies to take to the pie and ice cream social hosted at my work place this year.

Taste of the Gunflint Trail is a cookbook that relates the history of all businesses, both past and present, that have existed along the Trail. Every fall, several businesses along the Trail cook up a recipe or two from the cookbook. Today we had over 200 people in the museum to see the exhibits and get a piece of pie. A success to say the least.

It seems the cooler weather makes us all increasingly domestic. Andy keeps going on about wood stoves, I found my mother in the midst of making applesauce when I stopped by on Wednesday, and I’ve found incredible enjoyment in rolling out pie crusts and updating my Ravelry account. Nothing wrong with any of that, but every once in a while I have to remind myself that homey projects are meant to be an addition to my life, not a distraction from work at hand.

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Gonna Make A Pie

Baby don't you cry, gonna make a pie
Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle
--Waitress

After the great disappearing blueberry pie phenomenon of  last Saturday night  (when I made a pie with a lifespan of approximately 15 minutes), I knew I wanted another shot at fresh blueberry pie this summer. When I heard that my parents, grandparents, and a couple uncles were planning to come to visit the museum and have dinner at the cabin, I knew I’d found my excuse to pick another six cups of blueberries and make a pie. Yesterday at work I kept humming the little ditty from the quirky (but cute) Adrienne Shelley film Waitress: “Gonna make a pie, gonna make a pie.”

To be honest, I haven’t always had such a casual relationship with blueberry pie. When I lived in town, I always devoted an afternoon or two to heading up the “Trail” and picking blueberries. In college and during the winter I spent in the Cities, I usually had about a gallon of berries in the freezer. One of my best friends (and by far, my best roommate, ever) always gave me a hard time about my stubborn unwillingness to use any of the berries for a pie. Of course, I brought the hard times on myself by one time going on a rant of “I don’t know why people would use six whole cups of berries when the berries are tiny and take forever to pick.” During those days, I used my berries sparingly: in muffins and pancakes.

Now that I live in veritable blueberry paradise, berries are never in short supply and the task of gathering six cups of blueberries takes just over an hour and can, more often than not, be accomplished in the backyard. Kind of like how I spent 20 years of my life pretending I had straight hair, eventually you get over your inhibitions and start throwing all your berries into one pie crust and letting your hair crinkle, curl and kink as humidity see fit.

To say I still feel some guilt twinges about using so berries in a single bakery item wouldn’t be quite the truth, but I am still very conscious of the large amount used, so I try to make sure the final pie is worth the effort and sacrifice. In other words, it better be good. This means I turn to my secret ingredients:

Yep, lard and the freshest blueberries possible.

I’ve been using butter to make my pie crusts for years, but since I now frequently keep company with those with lactose intolerance, I decided to try out lard last week. Honestly, despite having a co-worker who swore by the virtues of lard, the substance kind of revolts me. But after the success of the lard pie crust a week ago, I may be becoming a lard convert. I’ve never made pie crust that was so easy to deal with.

I made this blueberry pie last night and having successfully fending off Andy from nibbling at it, now the pie rests on the counter, waiting for company and vanilla ice cream.

Gonna make a pie with a heart in the middle.

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