Bring it to the Table

No matter what situation I find myself in, I always have a primal need to contribute. I want to feel as though I've brought something to the table. That I have some sort of valuable skill, knowledge, etc. that makes me worth having around. Occasionally, not gonna lie, I even get a wee bit aggressive about it.

Cue a tale of pies and anxiety.

When it comes to cooking and baking, there is a very limited set of recipes in my repertoire. I'm not exactly what one would call "domestic" in that regard. Don't get me wrong, if provided a recipe to laboriously follow, I'll produce results. But in terms of instinct, you'll find none. The exception to this is pies.

For years, I had traditionally helped one of my grandma's prep the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. While this was a good Pie 101 (with brilliant tips like adding a baking sheet under your pie pan so if it bubbles over it doesn't get all over your oven), it was largely mixing pumpkin mush with spices / evaporated milk (seriously, what IS that stuff??) and popping it in the oven. I'd spend the course of the baking time convincing my grandma we should also make fudge, gorge myself on all the goodies, and then we'd call it a day. The real Pie Academy came from my other grandma.

She had just had a shoulder surgery and casually asked that I come visit her. Naturally I obliged and arrived wearing my sunniest granddaughter disposition, ready for a quiet afternoon of chit chatting. Shortly thereafter, she asked if I could help out with a few things. Why of course, dearest grandmother, your favorite grandkid to the rescue! There was no way of knowing what trap I had just walked into... the Pie Trap.

The next several hours I found myself kneading crusts, chopping apples, smashing pecans, creating some sort of meringue, measuring and mixing spices of every variety, staring into the oven, cranking out pie after pie...after pie... It had been a setup all along. Her gaggle of children were coming to visit (my aunts and uncles) and they loved when she baked for them. A pie was always present, without exception. Even when she couldn't move her arm, the pies needed to be there.

Hagrid approves of Halloween-themed pies and penguin ovenmits
#ReasonsImNotAnAdult

So there I was, the unwitting victim to a pie sweatshop (too soon?). No recipes, only trial and error shown through in decades of practice. And to this day, it's the only reason I can make a pie worth a damn. Don't get me wrong, I attempted to document because working from memory just isn't in the cards for me, but it's mostly things like "handful of x" and "some of z" and "don't forget to add butter." And I still struggle to find it on my laptop. I have two files named "apple pie" in my recipe folder. One is definitely for booze. I figure, whichever one I open up is the one I'll make. Russian roulette between pie and dranks - I'll take those odds.

Fast forward to this fall, when the beau and I decided to visit an apple orchard. Leading up to the excursion, I happily exclaimed how I would make us a pie from our pickings. My ridiculous delight at the chance to finally shine in the kitchen and prove my worth as a happy 50s housewife was shattered as he remarked, "Oh good idea, I've got a new pie recipe I wanted to try out!" A well-meant comment caused a fracture in my grin, as I quietly whimpered, "But, I want to make my pie. It's my grandma's pie. That pie is the pie I can make... " A noncommittal exchange followed, the result of which was my stubbornness coming out and me basically settling on, "Fine, make whatever pie you want, I'm going to make my pie."

One pie to rule them all... 

He, of course, didn't realize that I was clinging to that pie, afraid to expose my already obvious weakness in the kitchen by admitting that I can only make those specific, Grandma-inspired versions of pie and no others. As he is already far superior to me in the kitchen ((the man makes his own ice cream for Pete's sake, and has yeast at the ready to make bread or brew beer, or just to throw in the air like a magic Alton Brown kitchen fairy)), and we both know that I pale in comparison, I hold fast to tiny victories - like that damn pie. Wasn't about to give up my one skill to some other rando pie recipe.

At the end of the day, we did both make a pie. While I faked my domesticity, he gained brownie points by complimenting my efforts. Such a gem. Naturally, I responded by saying his pie was fine but mine was obviously superior. Because if I'm going to bring something to the table, it's going to be all-in, blue ribbon winner, or nothing at all, and humble pie is not one that my Grandma taught me to make...

Sweet victory... à la mode

What's your go-to heirloom recipe? 

Anyone else struggle pretending to be as effortless as the iconic 50s housewife?