Friends and Pie Lovers,
I can not keep this from you any longer: last weekend I accidentally made a sour cherry pie. It went undocumented and actually I never even had a bite myself.
When I woke up at the barn last Saturday morning, Joan and I inspected her sour cherry tree and deemed it ready for picking. So while I made the pastry for the quiches—enough quiches to feed 50 people and eight teenagers—I sent Sophie and the GCHS swim club to harvest the cherries. A ladder was involved. And while I continued making savory things like a huge pissaladiere for the cocktail hour, Audrey pitted the cherries until it was time for her to go to the Indigo Girls concert. And then somehow while I was making the rhubarb pies, a cherry pie ended up in the oven too. Just like that. I barely remember rolling out the dough and weaving the lattice crust. And then of course the hordes arrived and I forgot about the pie in the oven (though I do remember and regret chiding Ziggy for picking at the dinner buffet before the appointed hour). I forgot long enough that the crust was a bit burned. If we had to we could blame it on the Campari and soda Win made for me. Anyhow, the pie was less than perfect but I don’t fuss about these things anymore. Instead I lost myself in the fun of the party and before I knew it, the party was over and the pie was gone.
That is the whole truth.