Caffeination Deprivation

I arrive a touch late to the Longhouse mug match-up taking place Sunday evening in the dining room. My mug reminds me of a damask print in waves of taupe and ivory. It is smooth and cool to the touch. Clearly this ceramic object is about more than just morning coffee. It serves as a visual, a writer’s inspiration, but at daybreak tomorrow, it will cradle a steaming cup of french press with a heavy dose of whole milk.

Monday, our tiny Hamlet dawns sunny, nudging me to greet the day. There is just the slightest hint of iced triple shot latte deprivation pulsing through my temples. I trade pjs for shorts and sweatshirt, coax sleepy feet into socks and running shoes. Like a petit cochon seeking truffles, my nose slightly twitching in anticipation and desperation, I descend the creaky wooden staircase. Where is the onslaught of rich French roast mingling with earthy Italian? The kitchen is dark, the french press snoozing on the counter. It is too early for coffee and I am crestfallen. 

Pushing open the unlocked screen door, the sunlight is temporarily blinding. Looking right and then left, I am convinced that I am stepping into Thornton Wilder’s Grover’s Corners.

My sneakers opt left, navigating the uneven slate walkway that winds past wrought iron fences dotted with black-eyed Susans, The road is now inching upwards, paved black gravel meeting road sign 85. My knees are getting cranky, and the hill winds steeper still, finally leveling off opposite a small wooden shed, bleached light gray from the sun. There is a table set with a still life of yellow squash and vivid tomatoes, priced at 3/$1, with an honor system box below. I am thirsty and thinking about coffee.

Retracing my steps, there appears to be only one option for am caffeine at this hour. The neon red sign in the window of the Hilltown Café Diner states O-P-E-N. How convenient that the diner just so happens to share a building with the U.S. Post Office. Note to self: Next time bring a letter.

The diner draws me in, and surprisingly does not disappoint. The air is thick with the smell of frying eggs and bacon on cast-iron, maple flavored syrup and drip coffee from a Bunn-o-matic. Fashioned out of knotty pine and flanked by high backed chairs, the counter has a wavy bend to it, ideal for sitting up close without bumping your knees. I am completely out of my typical morning comfort zone, the clientele a polar opposite to my usual 8 am routine. Here, men are dressed in sensible dungarees, a few in flannel shirts, a few in practical short sleeve plaid, all engrossed in conversation and cups of joe.

There is no espresso machine, no line of impatient caffeine dependent commuters waiting for their soy lattes to grab and go. Nary a baby-toting Mom in yoga pants looking for a scone and a jolt.

I belly up to the side bar and help myself to a simple brown paper cup. There are two kinds of coffee for the offing; regular and decaffeinated. A quart container of half and half is resting in a cup of ice, cozying up to the sugar packets and stir sticks, making it easy to forget all about almond milk. The coffee is strong enough and hot enough to fuel my caffeine deprived soul. For now.

Once again I am on my way, temporarily buoyant with a caffeine buzz. Sneakers descend the hill, heel/toe, heel/toe. “West Side Story” is orchestral in my earbuds and I’m involuntarily ‘jazz handing’ as I round the bend.

The aroma is unmistakable as I cross the threshold of the house which is now abuzz with Young Scholars. Front and center on the farmhouse dining room table is a french press, poised and ready to pour.

I have just the very mug for it.

Where My Pie is At These Days (Guest Post)

Where is she?  Where has The Pie Queen gone? Upstate New York for the whole month of August, that’s where. She is busy honing her craft, getting inspired and hanging out with some new foodie friends. A much deserved retreat and writing intensive featuring clever turns of pastry phrase, delicious food and breath-taking running paths.  I’ve seen a few pictures, but am generally giggly that she has the opportunity to ignite her inner baker/writer and generally recharge her batteries. You, on the other hand, are stuck with me-- west coast sibling.  I am one of a three guest bloggers in the No More Mr. Nice Pie sphere this month.  Good luck to us all…

In preparation for this week’s assignment—pastry bench sitter turned starter—I’ve had to be a bit reflective on the subject of pie and dessert in general.  As a west coast based urban planner, I find the mental space that I devote to pie these days just ain’t what it used to be.  And, let’s be honest, it’s become a little cerebral.  From the school pot-lucks with a sub-event known as a “dessert dash” to Pi(e) Day on March 14—where people bake pie to honor one long number.  My how the times have changed.

I have pondered pie paths to travel for this week’s entry including highlighting the pie-ful stylings of my group of dear friends who gather weekly here in Seattle for a get together known as “Friday Feast” where the food and drink are plentiful.  The pie has been known to flow at these events. This summer in particular Friday Feast charter member Beth has been pointedly charged with making pie whenever we gather.  She is both good at it and willing to dive in to the lattice with great gusto.  She is handily helped by her 11 year old, Malcolm, who took a cooking class last summer and has quite an affinity for pie making. That kid makes a mean crust.  Although she will be horrified by my plentiful use of the ellipse, em-dash and parenthetical in this post, she was willing to go full-throttle pie baker this summer for Friday Feast.  That is a quality I respect in a person.

I have also contemplated the “Pie about Town” approach for this post.  Seattle has lots of pie emporiums these days.  Hand pies, mini-pies and the standard 9” variety with all sorts of fruit, nut and savory fillings.  One place even has a version stuffed with mac and cheese. Methinks Ellen would not approve of such a thing.  They do have good berry pie as well as one that is comfortingly full of broccoli and cheese…really more of a quiche, let’s be honest but a worthy companion for a winter brunch.

My favorite late night go-to Seattle pie place recently went from a full service restaurant to a catering-only kitchen.  A good move for them—with food truck culture picking up steam here in Seattle—my guess is that they could get more money with less fuss and muss if they rented out their commercial kitchen instead of preparing for the daily onslaught of ribschickensausagecornbreadgreensANDpecan pie…but their pecan pie was sure good.  This particular establishment, Smokin’ Pete’s BBQ, also has great name recognition for me.  When my youngest son was about 7, he was typically unwilling to let go of his version of reality once firmly planted in his head.   He was CERTAIN that the name of this BBQ joint was Smokin’ Pizza BBQ.  Seriously.  There was no moving him.  Even the sign clearly stating the name was insufficient evidence.  This is the young man who requests pumpkin pie for his April birthday, as well as lattice pie (the filling is really not important but the lattice…now that is the thing that sets a pie above others).  His brother, the elder, is not that bomb on fruit, so he leans towards the lemons, the chocolate creams, the buttermilk custards.  Or else cakes shaped like streetcars.  It’s a broad range but one that has generated fond birthday memories for us all.

I must say that my relationship to the dessert course has changed over time, heavily influenced by the onset of what I lovingly refer to as “the mommy belt.” This phenomenon results from becoming a mommy, working full time and not really ramping up that P90x regime or half-marathoning like SOME people do.  A liberal application of dessert just serves to feed that mommy belt.   And, although my east coast people are actually quite socially and fiscally conservative, they are very liberal when it comes to the dessert course(s).  The Grays are firm believers that dessert is a joyful, necessary, thrice daily event. My delightful west coast husband, on the other hand, who is socially liberal and fiscally conservative, appreciates a good dessert but is much more agnostic about the whole thing. His family considered dessert to be a treat, not a daily rite.  In a most respectful way, he has pointed out on a few occasions that the Gray family passion for “two o’clock ice cream” and “multiple dessert courses” after a meal is lovely, but a little unusual.  I have come to the conclusion that the east coast Grays are, well, a little dessert liberal if you can go there with me.  Hard to believe, really but I think quite true.

So, now that I started that firestorm (stirring the pot from 5,000 miles away has a quality all its own, really), I’ll close by wishing my folks, Rom and Jerry, a happy 65^th wedding anniversary celebration. While they both love pie, they are really equal opportunity dessert players and I hope they have one or two quality examples on their special day, August 7. You know you’ve hit a major milestone when Hallmark doesn’t even have a gift suggestion for this year  (GG, just so you know, the 60^th year was diamond and I think in absence of another suggestion, you can just use that one again…).  My dessert reflections are completed for now…next week, the Boston blogger steps in…I wonder where his pie is at these days???

Winds of Change

Winds of Change are set to blow through the bakery. I may complain about and criticize the Barista crew, but I have to admit that I am going to miss them. Particularly the ones that have been my sidekicks in the kitchen.  Cookie icers, pie shell rollers, and most critical to my needs, caffeine enablers. August always heralds the departure of the summer staff. Most are returning to either undergraduate or graduate school programs, and they are all pretty smart cookies.  I am also headed off to school for a month, freshly sharpened No. 2 pencils and notebook in hand. All of this change has me a touch melancholy. Not to the extent of Picasso during his Blue Period, but blue nonetheless.

My week began with a computer glitch that necessitated a visit to the Apple store. Despite my reservation, there is an enormous line snaking from the front door all the way back to the Genius Bar. It seems terribly unfair that after all of the signing in and waiting for a blue shirted Genius to acknowledge you, that complimentary beverages are not offered at the Bar. But who am I? Clearly not the Genius. I’m just a baker clutching a laptop and waiting my turn. The crowd around me is loud, some are crying, and the folks in Blue seamlessly slip in and out of secret passageways making the whole experience a little bit surreal. It is also (maybe it’s the children crying) reminiscent of hours logged in the pediatrician’s office; both as patient and later, as parent. None of it is good, but thankfully, it is temporary. Dr. Genius runs a battery of tests on little MacBook and after a tweak or two, declares it fit as a fiddle. I’m sent on my way with nary a sticker nor a lollypop. Seems slightly unfair.

Many things are unfair. Or more accurately, “No Good Deed Goes Unpunished” fifteen minutes prior to closing.  Folks who walk into a bakery right about this time looking for a cake are generally there because they forgot it was Somebody’s birthday. Such was the case with Salt and Pepper Haired Dad and Younger Camper Daughter. As I’m walking out the door, I take pity on the pair and offer to write “Happy Birthday Mom” on top of a chocolate buttercream cake. That just won’t do. Sure, they call her Mom, but they also call her ‘Schnooky’ or ‘Schnookums’ or ‘Sweetums’- I stopped listening. Mr. Salt and Pepper has a bit of an attitude, indicating with his overpriced sunglasses that there’s not enough room on the cake to capture all he wishes to say. Tell me about it; you’re not the one doing the writing. Clearly, there was more going on here than could be repaired with a simple birthday greeting. He would have been better off with a Papyrus card and one of those tennis bracelets that the Moms in yoga pants swear by. Turns out, Mom’s birthday had come and gone, this little cake was supposed to make everything right again, and to seal the deal, at the end of the buttercream sentiment, he wanted a heart. I wanted to go home.

Dad is still rephrasing, squeezing in more than a 6” cake can possibly accommodate. I have to interrupt. “Excuse me, but I am actually about to go home, so I’m afraid we need to wrap this up.” They decide on Mom and the heart. I carry the cake back to the bench and set it down with a bit of a thud, for dramatic effect. Fishing through a container of pastry bags filled with buttercream in assorted shades of ROYGBIV, I grab the Tiffany blue. In my tiniest hand font, I scrawl Happy Birthday Mom and punctuate it with a heart. I proffer the cake to Dad and Camper who barely look up. I barely look back.

On my walk home, I opt for the route through the little park, dotted with benches that run parallel to a quiet stream. My mood improves dramatically. In the distance, I can make out a group of very young campers, sporting identical t-shirts, accessorized with macaroni necklaces. They walk one behind each other, à la Make Way For Ducklings.

The very next day, I am in the thick of several flats of blueberries. Rinse, stems-be-gone, pat dry, repeat.  The berries are rolling pell mell, through the sugar and lemon zest, finally landing in brisée lined pie plates. Latticed, egg washed and sugared, each sheet tray of three weighs quite a bit. One of my favorite Baristas helps me navigate the weighty trays into the oven. I’m totally caught off guard when Barista poses an interesting question. He wants to know what I consider my favorite pie.

“To bake or to eat?” I ask him. He says, “To eat.” That’s a really fine question and I have to admit, I’m stumped. This Barista is one smart cookie, enrolled in a Chemical Engineering program in New England. It is the second summer we have worked together and I suspect it will be the last. Next year, he will most likely have a fascinating internship somewhere that does not involve grinding espresso nor folding bakery boxes.

I tell him that I’m rather fickle when it comes to choosing a favorite. A good bit of my pie affection has to do with pie memory. Who baked it, where I was when I enjoyed it, what was going on in my life at the time. I also explain that it’s difficult to grow tired of pie because it is a constant reflection of the season. Blueberry pie tastes like summertime in both Far Rockaway and Maine. Strawberry pie conjures a few short weeks in late May, early June and reminds me of the farm in Bucks County. And one of my favorite pies is hands down, summer peach. There are however, certain pies that get a year round pass. For instance, I can enjoy Key Lime pie regardless of the weather. It matters not what the thermostat says because one forkful of Key Lime always creates the illusion of balmy and tropical. That is not the same as New Jersey hot and humid. Totally different. And that’s why, on sweltering Garden State days, nothing tastes better than Key Lime pie directly out of the freezer. Young Engineer-to-be takes note of all of this.

A few of the summer staff have already turned in their aprons, and I’m mere days away from doing the same. But I must tell you that the smallest gesture of the week has had the largest impact. It null and voided all of the wacky, and most of the crazy. Young Engineer-to-be Barista stopped by the bakery today with an ‘End-of-Summer, Going-Back-to-School’ gift for me. He baked me a pie. A fresh peach pie and it was delicious.

As for me, I am handing over the reins for the next several weeks. Filling in here will be Sibling Baker from Seattle, Young Scholar in Boston and Blondilocks of the Big Apple.

Fare thee well, Barista Ducklings. Happy August to all. See you in September.

No Baked Goods For You, And By the Way, Happy Birthday

Clearly, I have the need, but neither the time nor the inclination for a therapist. If I did however, I imagine he/she would urge me to “experience the crazy and then let it all go.” Just crumple it up like a butter-stained sheet of parchment paper and throw it away. I’m working on it as I place one running shoe in front of the other.

This is the last you will hear of the Dinosaur cake and cookie saga, simply because in all of its ridiculousness, it borders on the sublime. On Saturday morning, our beloved Helicopter/Tiger Mom was due to collect her birthday cake and matching cello-bagged cookie favors. We awaited her arrival not because we wished to further engage her, but because we needed the refrigerator and shelving space.

Mom calls the bakery shortly before pick-up time to let us know that she has seen photographs of the dinosaur cookies on a social media website and her soon-to-turn four year old darling is (these are her exact words) “frightened by the squiggly smile” on the blue T-Rexes. He is not frightened by the grin on the pink Stegosauruses. Might I interject that nothing favorable ever comes from gender specific cookies. It is too late for the cookies, (Mom realizes there’s a time factor involved) but she admonishes us to adjust the expression on the gumpaste Rex that is lollygagging atop the vanilla buttercream. Holy Dinosaur.

I recounted this tale to my former roommate, the terribly sensible and talented pastry chef Betsy, who suggested we take the Soup Nazi approach, “No cake for you.”  My brother and sister-in-law echoed the identical sentiment and added a footnote. Perhaps some new signage out front, similar to those found in school lunchrooms; “This Is a Nut-Free Zone.” I think both of these ideas are brilliant and will broach the subject at the next staff meeting. Until then, I’m crumpling up this piece of crazy and tossing it right over my shoulder.

The House of Dinosaur is not the only family celebrating July birthdays. This week we will mark (no pun intended) the birthday of Mr. Sweet As Pie. (Clearly, opposites do attract.) He is a classic Birthday Pie sort of fellow and lucky for him, he married into a family well versed in fruit and crust. Better still, the dessert of his choice is all the rage making him a bit of a trendsetter. Personally, the popularity of this dessert is a bit of a deterrent; I hate it when Foodies think they’ve invented something newer and hipper than anyone else. I’ve been told ‘pastry repeats itself’ which is the case for Slab Pie.

What a concept! What a Way to feed a Crowd! What it does, is serve gaggles of pie-hungry folks. What it is, is something my Grandmother and Jessie baked every summer and became in later years, July Birthday Pie. Forgive me if I quietly applaud this dessert without jumping up and down on the Slab Pie bandwagon. Been there, baked it, still love it. But it’s not new, nor is it the brilliant invention of the folks toiling away at food magazines and food networks.  And why must every photograph of Slab Pie capture it resting on a hand hewn birch bark tray, dappled willow tree in the background?

Jessie’s approach was straightforward, boasting little more than fresh peaches and blueberries as its cover photo. The fruit is fanned over a pastry known as ‘Cookie Dough for Open Pies,’ a recipe found in any number of grandmotherly cookbooks. The beauty of the dough is the ease in which you can coax it into the pan, where it provides the perfect canvas for rows and rows of summer fruit. Hot out of the oven, a tangle of peaches and blueberries bubbling over the side, thick and jam-like, begging for a good lick of vanilla ice cream.

Traditionally, this is composed of July’s bounty; blueberries and peaches. Unless of course, someone in the house is unaware, such as the intended recipient of said birthday pie. Totally unaware that you have been saving the exceptional peaches for this very recipe and over several days, has consumed them for his breakfast.

I think I inherited the ‘Saving’ thing from Jessie. She was always earmarking various items for sundry uses and then relinquishing them when they were no longer of value. For instance, “Don’t eat those bananas! I’m saving them for banana cream pie.” The following day, “Why don’t you eat those bananas? They’re too ripe for banana cream pie.” The most famous of the Saving generally entailed a limited edition dessert (limited in that there were only two remaining servings) that Jessie fiercely protected for “the girls” (that would be my sister and me). Just ask my brothers.

As a result of the breakfast peaching, it’s quite possible that at this performance, the role of summer stone fruit may have to be played by sundry berries found lurking in the fridge.

I am bemoaning my fate to Sibling Baker from Seattle and she’s not particularly sympathetic to my plight. As a matter of fact, she gently criticizes me for chastising the consumer of the peaches. She suggests that one must create new traditions, variation on a theme and all-that-fruit-jazz. “It’s not your birthday,” I hear her saying. “What’s the big deal? You get so fixated with things- lighten up a bit.”

“That’s not the point,” I counter. “The peaches were in waiting. I know I made that perfectly clear.”

“No, you probably thought you said something to that effect when most likely you were having a conversation in your head, with yourself, while you were out running. It’s quite possible the poor man was not privy to this information. You do know that you do that, have conversations with yourself and think that others have witnessed these monologues?”

“Not this time- I’m certain he knew… How could he not? You know when the peaches are just perfect, and you cradle it in your hand, and there’s just the littlest bit of fuzz tickling your fingers? And it smells like summer…”

Sister cuts me off with “Have you ever considered there are people in the world, who actually wake up in the morning and think about eating breakfast? Before noon? And coffee doesn’t count. They may not view things through the same fruit colored glasses that you do. Dare I say, there’s nothing criminal about seeing a few peaches in the refrigerator and thinking, ‘that might be nice on my morning granola.’ As simple as that. There’s nothing sinister, no pre-meditated agenda. It was probably just breakfast.”

“Fine, fine, go ahead and defend the Birthday Boy. I don’t even care anymore.”

Sounding more and more like Dr. Frasier Crane, she continues. “But you know you do. You just can’t help yourself. It’s who you are. We’ve talked about this. How you’re just the slightest bit controlling in the kitchen. How you allow yourself to ruminate over the silliest little things. You will ask for an opinion or a suggestion regarding a baked good. You will listen, or appear to be listening. And then, in the end, you are just going to make what you planned all along. And if you have to take a slight detour enroute to the oven, that’s all we’re going to hear about.”

I believe I have heard this before.

“Good grief! There’s no crime in swapping cherries or blackberries for peaches and blueberries! You may just stumble on to something you like even better. Hmm? Might I remind you that you are not saving lives here. We’re talking about dessert.”

Maybe. There’s silence on my end of the line.

“For heaven’s sake, just bake a little something for the Birthday Boy. Stop playing the Peach Blame Game. If you don’t have peaches, consider another fruit. Or go in a completely different direction…”

“You know, I could veer in a completely different direction…”

“I just said that.”

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t he love Boston Cream Pie? Make him a Boston Cream Pie.”

“Is that technically ‘pie’? It’s more cake than pie…”

“It doesn’t have to be pie. It’s his birthday...”

I interrupt with, “He doesn’t even like his birthday.”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t like your birthday. This isn’t about you…”

I remind her that I do indeed like other people’s birthdays.

“So where are we? What did you decide?”

“I’m riding the struggle bus on this one. I’ve got so many beautiful blueberries…”

“You can buy another peach!”

“They won’t be as ripe. I’ll have to wait for them to ripen and by then, the birthday will be over.”

Now there’s silence from the Pacific Northwest.

“Are you there? Where’d you go?”

“Are you quite finished?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Feel any better?”

“Maybe. Not really. I’m aggravated, and now I have to go to work.”

“Sounds like a picnic to me. Now run along and have a good day.”

“You too.”

“Don’t let the Crazies get you down.”

“Promise. Oh no! Wait! What’s this? I just got a text from Blondilocks that there’s a recall on peaches!!!”

“That’s at Costco and Trader Joe’s. You live in the Garden State, for goodness sakes. Get some local peaches.”

“Right. I will. And I’ll bake what I had originally planned. You know, this pie and a little vanilla ice cream, no, maybe cinnamon ice cream; it’s going to be quite the party.”

“I’m sure it will. Just one more thing before I ring off…”

“Yes?”

“You really should consider seeking professional help. Just someone you can talk to.”

“I don’t need professional help. I have you.”

“That will be five cents, please.”