(no subject)
Cherries are not easily come by at this time of year. Maybe she's not going to the right places, the right farmers' markets tucked quaintly away in the corners of cobblestone squares, but Clarice hasn't seen any. She doesn't let it stop her, of course: She goes to the public library, scours through the cookbooks, and leaves with a pair of solid, reliable-looking ones, the kind with photo illustrations and assurances that yes, anyone can bake a pie. This one's going to be apple.
Gail, her roommate, is understandably curious when she comes home with a paper bag full of groceries and pie plates.
"Didn't you just go shopping?" she says, looking up from her textbook.
"Special project," Clarice tells her with a secretive smile.
Gail's eyebrows arch, but she doesn't press. Clarice hits the kitchen and sets the bag down on the counter.
Jesus Christ, that's a lot of apples.
The cookbook calls for cider, too, as part of the filling; but only once brought to a boil. Two cups of apple cider and one large saucepan later, that's taken care of, leaving Clarice with the relatively simple task of throwing the rest of the filling together in a bowl. Sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice ... lemon juice? Oh well, it goes in too, followed by vanilla extract and pumpkin-pie spice.
Somewhere between taking the cider off the stove to cool and pouring it into the bowl with everything else-- maybe a third of the way through peeling and quartering the apples-- Clarice reflects that this is kind of therapeutic. Like doing laundry. Follow the recipe, don't deviate, watch the results. She's never really thought much of cooking, in the past.
This better be a damn good pie, she thinks ten minutes later, when she is finally, at long last, down to her last two apples. Her hands are tired of slicing.
Maybe you have to build up stamina for this stuff?
The recipe says to preheat the oven now, if she's already made the crust. She has: The ingredients were simple enough that she didn't have to go out and buy anything. Flour, water, butter, shortening, salt. Clarice peers into the refrigerator, where her crust has been chilling for the hour between the time she made it and the time she got home. It looks ... fine, she guesses, though she's worried about it; the recipe warned against the many, many pitfalls of crust-making. She sets it on the counter and peels off the plastic wrap.
What consistency is this supposed to be?
Coat the pie pan with cooking spray, fit the bottom layer of crust to fill the pan. Spoon the apple filling in. Clarice dips a fingertip in the mixture, just to check--
Mmm. That's not bad.
She lowers the top layer of crust over the plate, carefully-- you're supposed to press the edges of the dough together, hers just barely meet but she prays it'll do the job. Into the oven with the thing.
Approximately forty minutes later, the warm, glorious smell of apple pie is floating through the apartment. Gail sticks her head around the kitchen doorway, sniffing appreciatively.
"Ooh. Do I get a piece?"
"Sure thing," Clarice says with a grin, checking the timer. "It should be about done, actually ..."
Ceremoniously, she opens their oven and removes the pie, which is set to cool on the counter. There are no apparent physical defects.
However, ten minutes later, Clarice discovers that the sharpest knife in the kitchen barely makes a dent in the thing. The crust is as hard as a rock.
"Fuck."
From the living room/dining room, Gail calls, "What happened?"
"Overmixed the crust," Clarice groans. "Fuck." The recipe had warned her about that.
"Can I still have some?" Gail wants to know.
"How strong is your jaw?" Clarice calls back.
That more or less kills off Gail's interest.
Clarice sighs, staring glumly at her deceptively delicious-looking culinary failure.
"This is never going to work," she mutters.
Gail, her roommate, is understandably curious when she comes home with a paper bag full of groceries and pie plates.
"Didn't you just go shopping?" she says, looking up from her textbook.
"Special project," Clarice tells her with a secretive smile.
Gail's eyebrows arch, but she doesn't press. Clarice hits the kitchen and sets the bag down on the counter.
Jesus Christ, that's a lot of apples.
The cookbook calls for cider, too, as part of the filling; but only once brought to a boil. Two cups of apple cider and one large saucepan later, that's taken care of, leaving Clarice with the relatively simple task of throwing the rest of the filling together in a bowl. Sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice ... lemon juice? Oh well, it goes in too, followed by vanilla extract and pumpkin-pie spice.
Somewhere between taking the cider off the stove to cool and pouring it into the bowl with everything else-- maybe a third of the way through peeling and quartering the apples-- Clarice reflects that this is kind of therapeutic. Like doing laundry. Follow the recipe, don't deviate, watch the results. She's never really thought much of cooking, in the past.
This better be a damn good pie, she thinks ten minutes later, when she is finally, at long last, down to her last two apples. Her hands are tired of slicing.
Maybe you have to build up stamina for this stuff?
The recipe says to preheat the oven now, if she's already made the crust. She has: The ingredients were simple enough that she didn't have to go out and buy anything. Flour, water, butter, shortening, salt. Clarice peers into the refrigerator, where her crust has been chilling for the hour between the time she made it and the time she got home. It looks ... fine, she guesses, though she's worried about it; the recipe warned against the many, many pitfalls of crust-making. She sets it on the counter and peels off the plastic wrap.
What consistency is this supposed to be?
Coat the pie pan with cooking spray, fit the bottom layer of crust to fill the pan. Spoon the apple filling in. Clarice dips a fingertip in the mixture, just to check--
Mmm. That's not bad.
She lowers the top layer of crust over the plate, carefully-- you're supposed to press the edges of the dough together, hers just barely meet but she prays it'll do the job. Into the oven with the thing.
Approximately forty minutes later, the warm, glorious smell of apple pie is floating through the apartment. Gail sticks her head around the kitchen doorway, sniffing appreciatively.
"Ooh. Do I get a piece?"
"Sure thing," Clarice says with a grin, checking the timer. "It should be about done, actually ..."
Ceremoniously, she opens their oven and removes the pie, which is set to cool on the counter. There are no apparent physical defects.
However, ten minutes later, Clarice discovers that the sharpest knife in the kitchen barely makes a dent in the thing. The crust is as hard as a rock.
"Fuck."
From the living room/dining room, Gail calls, "What happened?"
"Overmixed the crust," Clarice groans. "Fuck." The recipe had warned her about that.
"Can I still have some?" Gail wants to know.
"How strong is your jaw?" Clarice calls back.
That more or less kills off Gail's interest.
Clarice sighs, staring glumly at her deceptively delicious-looking culinary failure.
"This is never going to work," she mutters.