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Confession

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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.

Here’s a picture of the venison pate I made for the party. It’s all gone too.

Written by etinnyo

June 28, 2013 at 12:23 pm

La Crostata di Ciliegie

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La seconda crostata è venuta a mia lezione italiano. Dopo il esercizio di grammatica, abbiamo parlato.

“Che cosa è che lì dentro?” Angelo ha chiesto.

“Ho portato qualcosa da mangiare, una crostata di ciliegie,” ho detto lentamente.

Lentamente e dolorosamente, ho detto su mia fine settimana alla campagna. Abbiamo parlato sui tipi di ciliegie: ciliegia dolce, ciliegia amara, ciliegia da Polonia, cilegia da Michigan, ciliegia da italia e francia.

“Abbiamo guidato in settanta miles a Newberg. La campagna era bellissima. C’era colline di alberi prossima la fiume Hudson e le montagne. Come si dice, ‘pick your own’?” Ho chiesto. “Abbiamo raccolto trentacinque libra di ciliegie.”

Angelo ha chiesto studenti tutti sulla cottura qualcosa.

Allora ha chiesto, “Che ora è?”

“È tempo di crostata,” abbiamo detto tutti.

Written by etinnyo

June 21, 2012 at 3:52 pm

Posted in Art, Food, Italy, New York, Pie

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Last Pie

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Annabel loves me for my pie and nothing but pie matters. To either of us.

So the last pie was prepared in her oven while various members of her family came and went (and didn’t come or didn’t go), leaving luggage, plane reservations, hotel keycards, backgammon boards, chess pieces, Rochester garbage plates and live fish in their wake.

Paul, Nicole, Justin, Chelsea, Julia, David and Annabel ate the pie still steaming from the oven. And we savored every sweet-sour, juicy, hot cherry wrapped with buttery crust until bit by bit it diminished into just this memory.

Written by etinnyo

July 21, 2011 at 9:16 pm

감사합니다 (Gamsahabnida y Gracias)

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The salon was busy when the pie arrived. Terry sent one of the new girls downstairs to buy iced coffees for everyone. Each one of the girls peeled away from her confused client for a slice of pie. I see these ladies more regularly than most of my friends: the always solemn Kim lit up the salon with her smile, Nancy was characteristically giggling, Maria maintained her composure by shutting her eyes. Terry did the head count: seven manicurists, her two friends visiting from Flushing (who ate them on the electric massage chairs), the lady who comes from uptown every month to get gel extensions from Kathy who was sitting right next to where I was cutting the pie, and one piece saved for Bruce who was at a business lunch.
Then Terry painted my nails bright pink while we talked about Korean food.

Written by etinnyo

July 20, 2011 at 8:26 am

Heirlooms

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The pie came along to breakfast club at our usual place but saved itself for Kate’s community garden. The garden has a proper gazebo which is where we took shelter from the mid-day sun, and where Whitney, Kate , Aaron and later Kevin and his boys had pie.
Kate gave us a tour of her plot. Then half a pie was told the story of the Collyer Brothers and hoarded in the basket for another day.

The other half of the pie was invited to dinner the next day with Susan, Alex and Faye (but not before Dan charmed a slice out of the basket at the office). There it was served on Grandmother’s Noritake a.k.a. the pancake plates with a petulant moussamoussette. Susan has a deep understanding of pie because Alex loves pie. She and I can have girl-talk about pie for hours.

Written by etinnyo

July 20, 2011 at 7:17 am

Up On The Roof

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This pie came downtown for the mixed-grill and stayed for dessert. There was an excited conversation about British game vs French game and  Wolfgang (not that Wolfgang but another Wolfgang) whispered just to me, “The real game is in southern Germany.”

More talk about climbing Hungarian fruit trees, then snail farming.

After the pie had made its second round, Magda asked how I can eat pie (or anything) for more than three days in a row let alone 20. I wonder that myself sometimes.

But then I look around to the gathering of souls at the table (Tamas, David, Lucy, Natalie, Angel, Bogyi, Blake and Wolfgang); then to the Christmas lights of  her roof garden paradise; I breathe in the breeze off the Hudson and I say, “Each pie is a slice of heaven.”

Written by etinnyo

July 17, 2011 at 4:22 am

Friday

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No pie. I woke up with no cherries in the house.

Spent the day buying cherries, thinking about cherries, answering cherry questions, planning future pie and giving directions to tourists (apparently carrying a flat of cherries in high heels makes one seem approachable or knowledgeable).

Had a pork chop and sour cherries for dinner. By now about 50% of my body mass must be built from cherries and butter.

Written by etinnyo

July 16, 2011 at 11:08 pm