Pie

Pie. A three letter word that speaks volumes. There are books, TV shows and diners devoted to this world of crust encased goodness. The recipes range from cream-filled to meringue-topped to fruit-streuseled to cream-cheesed to everything in between. Pie seems to be the Holy Grail of the dessert kingdom. Bakers go to their graves clutching stain-blotched recipe cards that hold the secrets to a perfect pie.

In reality, it is not about the pie filling, important as that is, it is about the crust. A silky smooth pie covered with mounds of sweet fluffy meringue can be toppled from perfection by a tough, tasteless crust. There is nothing more sad than a plate of disemboweled pie crust left behind like a piece of picked over carrion. Better to just eat a dish of lemon custard and call it a day. Ironically, there are also those who will leave a delicious crust behind to "save on calories." Good Granny. Order a dish of sherbet and stop insulting the cook.

My grandmother made delicious pies and I don't remember more than a crumb being left on any plate she served us.  Her meringues were always perfectly coiffed. The fruit pies were sweetened just right. And the streusel toppings had the perfect amount of crunch. But the best part of all was the crust. Flaky, tender and flavorful. Her secret? I believe it was lard. Yes, lard. Fat. A word that is poison to many but golden to a true baker. Lard was readily available for my grandmother so it made good sense to use it in her cooking. We were also part of a generation that recognized the value of fat in our diets. Putting in a full day on the farm could not be sustained by a plate of lentils and brussel sprouts (delicious as both are). Real labor needed all the food groups and a treat or two to make life interesting. Enter the pie.

Fast forward to today. Most of us probably don't need pie to sustain a physically demanding day but life without pie just seems wrong. We are no less obsessed with sweet treats than our ancestors, we just have to temper ourselves a bit more. I inherited my grandmother's love of a good pie but I don't think I will ever achieve her skill level. My pies tend to be hit and miss. I have experimented with everything from old cookbook recipes to store bought crusts. All I know so far is that a store prepared crust is okay in a pinch but a made-from-scratch, loved-by-a-rolling pin, ingredients-just-right crust can be a work of art. I think I have created just a couple in my lifetime. Most of my attempts are acceptable at best and a few never make it to a pie plate (case in point last week, disaster!).

So, if you are fortunate enough to enjoy a really good pie this holiday season, don't forget to thank the cook. And eat your crust!

Intruder

The crashing noise was unexpected and startling. It came from the direction of my deck. My brain quickly analyzed the possibilities. The fierce wind. A rogue squirrel. A broken bird feeder. A cat burglar. All seemed possible.

All were incorrect. One was almost accurate. No burglar, just a cat. A beautiful apricot and cream colored feline had knocked over my tray of bird seed. I imagine that she had miscalculated a leap for a little cheeper snacking on an overhead bird feeder. By the time I reached the patio door, she was doing what all cats do when they are caught in an act of malfeasance, sauntering nonchalantly away as if everything that happened was planned and perfectly normal. End of story.

I should be angry at the marauding tabby, but I am not. Of course, I am not happy about the upset tray of bird seed. And I would rather not have my bird feeding station become the Royal Buffet for cats and other perpetrators. But, cats are cats, birds are birds and people are stupid when they try to take sides. Tempting birds to visit my deck will inevitably tantalize other lovers of birds and seed, some with four paws.

Every day I watch a few portly squirrels munch their way through freshly stocked seeds. It is not my intent to feed them but investing time and money on dubious methods of resistance makes little sense. Their stubby little paws share space with the blunt beaks of their feathered neighbors. Selective feeding may work for zoos but not so much for unfenced spaces.

Growing up on a farm hammered the laws of nature home for me. We loved our cats, but we respected their place in the food chain. Mice and other vermin were fair game on most days and so was a favorite pet bird one disastrous afternoon. (Sorry about that, little sis.) We also knew that on any given day, our favorite cat might not return, a possible victim of a larger carnivore or a blundered attempt at jumping over a barbed wire fence. Not pretty. Just real.

As I watch my bird feeding station, I am reminded that it is not always wise to rewrite the scripts of nature. The unadorned, ubiquitous house sparrow is just as hungry for bird seed as is the brilliantly beautiful cardinal. The nose crinkling bunny rabbit is as interested in the tender shoots of garden beans as I am. The neighborhood cat is programmed to stalk and hunt. The chatty squirrels stuff their chubby cheeks in fear of lean days ahead. The sharp sighted hawk circles our backyards in search of bird, mammal or reptile.

And I know that a spilled pan of bird seed is just a sign of nature's bounty. Enjoy the goodness.

Bewitched

A popular TV series in the late 60's and early 70's was a show called Bewitched. The premise, like many hit shows, was a story line that most individuals might find silly and a bit weird. A good witch named Samantha marries a mortal named Darrin Stephens and together they build a life in suburbia. Hard to believe such a frothy fantasy was a top pick for millions of viewers and continues in syndication today.

When I was young, TV watching was a limited event due to the black and white behemoth that sat on the edge of the sitting room. Its reception was spotty and only a couple of channels were relatively reliable. Selected shows were based on a large family's compromises and prescribed bedtimes. Bewitched was certainly not a first pick due to its shady connection with possible witchcraft but somehow we managed to sneak in enough episodes to know that Samantha had a secret power that seemed oh so appealing. Imagine being able to twitch your nose and instantly have dishes go from dirty to sparkling. One more twitch and your messy room was clean and orderly. To this day, I secretly long for a way to go from grimy to glittery in minutes.

Clearly, I never became the power wielding Samantha Stephens but I'm afraid I did become a different character, Gladys Kravitz. Gladys was the curious, snoopy neighbor who was always on the edge of discovering the reason behind the aura of strangeness in the Stephens household. She would pop up at inopportune times in the Stephens house, seeing and hearing things that caused her face to scrunch up in pondering moments. She was only too willing to share her observations with her long suffering husband and anyone else who would entertain the possibility of miscreants in their midst.

My Gladys moments are a little less dramatic. For years, I have had a full on view of the neighborhood through my large living room window. Any time that I am perched on my couch reading or playing another game of Scrabble with my computer, I am also watching folks walk by my house. I can set my clock to the determined walking pursuits of many dog-walkers, stroller-pushers and I'm-going-to-get-fitters. I've developed stories in my head about the lives of my window actors. The cigarette puffing young lady, hand in hand with her older gentleman friend, is always being pulled along by an itty bitty dog. I've made her the second wife of a love triangle gone bad. The doggedly determined speed walker who goes by in the early evening hours has become someone who is scared witless to gain a pound, perhaps due to past taunts by thoughtless others. The portly gentleman, who walks by in calculated, measured steps, wearing a pith helmet during the heat of the day, has become someone who just received bad news from the doctor and is determined to turn things around. The lady with the swimmingly giant white coat is afraid to buy a size smaller because it might jinx good works that have already been accomplished. And the little dogs who no longer trot by with their owners have probably gone on to doggie heaven, leaving behind saddened loved ones.

All my Gladys Kravitz musings have come to a a screeching halt this month, however. We installed a new living room window with internal pleated shades that can be lowered, not raised.  It makes far more sense to lower the shades so we can let light in without compromising our privacy throughout the day and evening hours. While I love our new, sleek window, I must confess that I miss my sidewalk friends. No more story speculations and daydreaming inspirations and no more Gladys moments. Certainly, I can lower my shades completely and continue the novellas I have created in my head but perhaps it is time to let go, at least for awhile. Or, I can join the pavement pounders and become part of their stories.

On second thought, I'll just lower the shades a bit farther. Enough exercise for one day.