Posts Tagged ‘pie’

2nd place is first in losing

Monday, April 4th, 2011

Once again, I made a pie to bring to the county fair bake-off at my daughter’s school.  Last year at this event, I was surprised to win third place among the many pies submitted for the pie category. This year when Em and I went to drop off my lemon meringue pies with homemade crusts  (that I woke up early on a Saturday morning to prepare), there was only one other pie on the judging table. I couldn’t tell what kind of pie it was but it looked like a crumble top and in my humble (judgmental) opinion the top looked a little burnt. My pie meanwhile had fresh-squeezed lemon juice from the tree in my own backyard and a nicely toasted, puffy meringue top. Em and I be-bopped out of there. But it was early. There was still over an hour for folks to drop off their entries.

But no – as it would turn out – my pie and the slightly burnt crumble top would be the only two pies to enter the competition that day.

Last year, when we got to the fair we bought one of my pies back at the bake sale so that we could enjoy it. I wanted to do the same this year and sent Liam to go pick up my pie.  He came back empty-handed.  “Your pie is gone already, but you won a second-place ribbon” he said.  I started cracking up, “There were only two pies in the competition!” I said. Liam and Em and my dad and I all started laughing. “Dammit! Next year I’m just going to make two pies and keep them for us to eat at home!”

Em kindly pointed out that, even still, I improved over last year. “Well, that’s true” I had to admit.

But I couldn’t help feeling like second place is first in losing. Losing what? I’m not sure.

The bigger question is why did I do this in the first place? Or maybe why did I do it in the second place? It has something to do with proving that I’m juggling everything adequately: motherhood, working, trying hard enough.

True to form, my life plays like a bad country and western song — second place in a contest of two.

Lesson learned. Next year I’m keeping a whole pie for myself.

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Pie on my mind

Tuesday, October 19th, 2010

In Park Slope, Brooklyn there is a storefront that says Brooklyn Superhero Supply Co. and inside you can find secret identity kits, gallon jars labeled “invisibility” or “antigravity” or “truth serum”.  The store is a front for 826NYC a youth-oriented non-profit creative writing center started by author Dave Eggers.  But you can really buy stuff in the store like capes and x-ray glasses. All the money goes directly to the writing center. But here’s the catch.  Whenever you purchase anything in the store you have to raise your hand and take a superhero oath into a microphone that can be heard throughout the store.  One of the first steps in this oath is you must state your super hero name.  So it goes something like this, I,  _____ (insert superhero name here) _____ do solemnly swear to fight for justice and remain ever vigilant, ever true … [or something like this]

The first time I went there it came to the moment of truth.  I raised my hand and began, “I, American Pie, do solemnly swear….” I could hear laughter from different corners of the store.

So that is how I got my superhero name.  I am American Pie, AP for short. AP has a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose and cheekbones so that her face is like a piece of lightly golden toast that has been sprinkled in waving arcs of cinnamon by the hands of a benevolent mother.

Her cape is made from a soft cotton apron with a delicate floral print and bright ribbon trim.  There is a pocket in the cape in which are kept tissues — magical tissues that heal children’s pains and colds with one swipe. The rest of her outfit is a cherry colored leotard and tights with a beautiful golden pie logo on her chest.

However, don’t for one minute let AP’s rosy-cheeked munificence fool you.  American Pie is a force to be reckoned with. She is a savant in mathematics and baking.  She has been gifted with a strong sense of Intuition, Telepathic Rapport, and Empathy.

Baking pies is a central part of her mission for justice and peace. However her pies mainly impart feelings of positivity — such as wellbeing, courage, or a sense of heartening (though she does also have the ability to befuddle).

AP often gives pies to those in need of a boost of confidence or empowerment. I am stronger than I know, you may begin to think as you chew a bite of flaky crust.

We may not have a Superhero Supply Store here in Phoenix, but you can bet your superhero utility belt that American Pie will be at Pie Social, thrown by Chow Bella and Roosevelt Row on November 13.  She will be undercover. Will you recognize her? Come join the pie-tasting goodness.

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Saturday in Snowflake

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

I spend Saturday driving to Snowflake with my mom’s two best friends. Ann shows up with large vanilla lattes for everyone already sitting in the cup holders of her Dodge Challenger. Nelda has little bundles of lavender for each of us picked from her garden. We have a really nice day together — visiting the cemetery, having lunch, a little antique shopping.

For lunch we head to a restaurant called Trapper’s, which is a bit of a tradition. The restaurant has a not-meant-to-be-hilarious section of the menu called “Light Eaters”. The choices are Chicken Fried Steak, Grilled Ham Steak, BBQ Beef, Boneless Chop, Chicken Strips, etc. There’s not really anything light about them. Plus the meals come with a choice of potato, roll, soup or salad. But, the menu says, the meat portion of these meals is approximately half. Thank god, we joke, we need to save room for slices of pie with ice-cream.

We talk about a lot of things driving down the highway, and it’s not like this little story has any big significance or anything, but I keep thinking about it. Ann says your mom was driving herself to a doctor’s appointment in Flagstaff in the winter. She was by herself, of course. And as she’s driving she notices a god-awful smell in the car. She can barely stand it. This is horrendous she thinks. She takes out her cell phone to call my dad who is on an eastbound train in the opposite direction to tell him that he has got to do something about this. He has to figure out what the heck is causing this horrible smell. Finally she gets to her doctor’s appointment but as she’s waiting there she starts to smell that smell again. Only then does she realize she has dog shit on the bottom of her shoe and she starts cracking up. She tries to hide her shoes in a corner when the nurse takes her back into the examination room. It was cold outside, but when heaters on the floorboard of the car hit the dog poo it warmed it up and sent the aroma wafting through the car, getting stronger and stronger. We all laugh. It’s funny because my mom was fastidious. It’s funny because her first instinct is to chew out my father rather than check her shoes. It’s funny because this is the kind of situation she found very amusing.

Back at my dad’s house, there are 80 pairs of my mom’s shoes lying on top of the bed. Each pair sealed inside a Ziploc bag. I pick up a jaunty, nautical looking pair and try to squeeze my foot inside, but my mom’s feet were more petite than mine and I feel like the ugly stepsister trying to wedge her foot into the glass slipper. I seal them back up in the plastic bag. It’s not lost on me, that I don’t fit in my mother’s shoes.

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Third place pie

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

A few weeks ago I made a pie for the school fair at Emerson’s elementary school.

As I’m rolling out the piecrust, I suddenly start thinking oh no! What about presentation. These moms are probably going to have some crazy elaborate cute presentations. Do I need to bring a placemat? A tablecloth? A basket? Get some gingham ribbon to tie around the pie plate?

Isn’t it enough that I’m making my own pie crust?

At my daughter’s school, I have the impression that I can never keep up. Am I simply less organized? Less motivated? I try to pitch in when and where I can, but still have the feeling I’m not quite fitting in.

Sometimes I am totally convinced it is me. I am doing something off-putting, I’m too stand-offish. We have different interests. I’m odd. I only have one child.

Sometimes I blame my spouse – if he were more of a joiner it would make it easier for me. Sometimes I blame our lack of disposable income. If I had more money I would be more social. But the truth is, it is all of these things and more.

My anxiety makes me think of my artist-friend Lilah, and one of my favorite drawings of hers. It’s a picture of two bunnies and in a word bubble one bunny says to the other, “I thought we brought good wine”. Somehow it completely encapsulates the insecurities of trying to belong.

I wake up early Saturday morning to make the pies. I peel and slice apples and try to stay mindful of the apple widths – trying to keep them consistent; not rushing my way through it.

I start thinking about my imaginary stump speech. I would probably say here’s the thing other moms, what I have to offer is this: I’m a pretty hard worker, kids genuinely crack me up, and I don’t mind hanging out with them, I’m loyal. I don’t really get a lot out of gossiping in line at the grocery store, but I’m game to grab a cup of coffee.

For the first half of the school year, I seem to have the uncanny ability to talk to a mom at a birthday party and then, say a week later, I’ll see that same mom at pick-up or something and she will look at me with absolutely no recognition. I’ll give her that friendly “Hey”, look and get nothing in return. How is it possible?

I get the pies in the oven. And because I haven’t had any breakfast and either has my kid, I take the leftover pie dough and roll it out into an imperfect shape, lay it on a cookie sheet, sprinkle it with sugar and cinnamon, and pop it into the oven. This is something my mom always did for me when I was a little girl. It just takes a few minutes to turn golden brown, and Emerson and I enjoy it in the living room.

Covered in flour and apple shmutz I head for the shower. While I’m in there I decide that I need to name my pie. That if I’m going to enter a pie into a pie-contest that it deserves a name.

Here’s what I come up with, “Turning Into My Mother Apple Pie”.

Later, when we get to the fair, the winner’s names are being written on a dry-erase board. My eyes do a quick scan. And there I am: Third Place. Well, holy-cow. My family cheers and snaps a few camera phone pictures and we buy back one of our pies and go on our way to have fun at the fair.

My family has needed some good news. And even though the scale of this particular victory is very tiny and small, we celebrate it.

I feel like I try to give to everyone around me, but still feel like I’m failing somehow. And this feeling, more than anything else, is what probably unites me with the other mothers at my daughter’s school. I try to remember that we are all, at times, feeling this way.

The other day we had a silly icebreaker at work at the start of a staff meeting. Paper and markers were passed out and each of us was asked to draw a tattoo that would describe something about us. Inside I’m all eye-rolls and oh brother. But then, I just start drawing. I map out the constellation of stars that form the Big Dipper with my pencil. They are delicate star shapes. Just above the North Star in fancy script I write the word, “Mom”.

By the time my kid makes it to second grade, I promise, I’m going to have this figured out. I’m going to find us a tribe. I feel like we’re on our way.

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Chicken fried steak

Monday, May 10th, 2010

For Mother’s Day I ate chicken fried steak and cherry pie al a mode at the Beeline Café in Payson, Arizona.

My family has been stopping at the Beeline forever. Whenever we made the drive from Winslow to Phoenix, the Beeline was our preferred place to stop for lunch.

The Beeline is an old cowboy diner. There’s one particularly mean waitress who sasses everyone and lots of old-timers and weak coffee and I absolutely love it.

I always ordered the chicken fried steak, as did my dad, my mom and my grandma. All four with salad, all four salads with ranch dressing. My little brother, inexplicably, always ordered the French Dip sandwich.

One time we overheard two women in the booth behind us. One of them said to the other, “Have you ever felt of a dead person”? “Cold as clay, heat leaves the body as soon as they’re gone”.

We almost lost it in our booth, having to look away from each other to keep from laughing.

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