Confessions of an Imperfect Pie-Maker

Until very recently, the closest I had ever come to making a pie was watching my mother make one while I drank a glass of wine. Pies were simply too complicated and time-consuming for my patience and schedule, and besides, couldn't one buy a perfectly good pie at the Rainbow Foods bakery?

I have since ventured into the world of pies, and the aversion of "complicated" has transformed into "worthy challenge." Making pies, like so many other baked goods, is an art and a science. One misstep leads to another, which leads to a ball of dough in the garbage and a filling down the disposal. But once I decided to give pies a try, I met them head-on, wrestling the challenges to the ground.

My mother, an accomplished pie-maker, taught me how to make a crust. Her crusts are picturesque and perfectly flaky, so naturally she made it look very easy. Unfortunately, the sly geometry involved with trying to get a pie crust to flatten in a perfect circle, coupled with the precise moisture content, has made for evenings of cursing while sweeping flour off the floor and out of my hair.

Tonight, I attempted two pies: a banana cream and a strawberry cream. Apprehensive about the crust, due to a previous debacle involving a football-shaped crust and way too much flour, I took it very slowly. What emerged from this patience were two absolutely flawless, round crusts. I could not quite believe my luck, and actually stared at them for a few minutes with disbelieving pride.

The banana cream filling was one I had made before, with some help from Chef Matt, but buoyed by my perfect crusts, I was sure I could do it alone. Turns out, tempering egg yolks with hot liquid is a delicate business, which left my lovely vanilla pudding full of scrambled eggs. I decided that people would, in fact, notice scrambled eggs in their pie, so I first tried to sieve the eggs out before furiously throwing the whole mixture away. Not wanting to need Matt to bail me out, I tried again, and managed to avoid breakfast food in my dessert.

The strawberry cream was much easier, although I did examine the recipe for a minute, stumped, as I determined the best way to mash fresh strawberries. When the potato masher and potato ricer did not do the trick, I gave up and used my hands.

What I love most about baking pies is the overwhelming satisfaction that comes with conquering a difficult task. Crusts and fillings are frustrating undertakings for infrequent bakers like myself, but I have found that a hole left by talent can be filled adequately by persistence and precision. When I manage to make a beautiful lattice-top cherry pie, or even a banana cream with no scrambled eggs, I feel pride in something that is not one of my gifts. And honestly, that might be a greater sort of pride than something that comes naturally.

A Lonely Sunday Strikes

The evil gnome of Kitchen Widow life struck this weekend.

It was a beautiful Sunday, warm and humid and practically begging for much outdoor play, when the dastardly villain crept up on me before I could light-saber it to the ground, as I usually do, and attacked. My defenses were down as I struggled to wrangle the children and fight off third-trimester exhaustion, so I sank easily into its clutches: Loneliness had gotten me.

It was one element of Kitchen Widow life that surprised me in its ferocity, the first time Loneliness struck. I am very capable of being alone, in general. I lived alone, from the time I graduated college to the time we got married, and I loved the freedom and independence aloneness afforded. But I believe there is a difference in the aloneness of single life and the aloneness of missing your spouse.

These days, Loneliness does not win very often. I am too frantic, too caught up in the busyness of career/mommyhood/home ownership/married life to pay Loneliness much heed. It also does me no good to dwell on my lonely hours, and it certainly does nothing for Chef Matt except produce guilt. But this Sunday, I think I was caught up in imagining a life where weekends belonged to us and not the restaurant, where we could lollygag and linger to our hearts' content, where weekend camping trips were a possibility, where we could socialize during normal hours instead of on inconvenient Monday nights.

The world is certainly not set up for non-bankers' hours. But I can find solidarity in so many others who exist outside of 9-to-5: nurses, police officers, retail clerks, journalists, bus drivers, to name a few. Weekends do not always exist for them, or their spouses, and I am sure that many of them see life as we do: hours spent together are rare and precious and never taken for granted.

I was able to vanquish Loneliness after a while, as the day rolled into evening and meals were made and children were entertained. Although I always feel bad when I let it bring me down, I suppose I should feel a little grateful for Loneliness. Its appearance reminds me that my husband's presence is important to me, and to the kids, and just as the existence of evil illuminates the good, the existence of Loneliness illuminates the Companionship. The elusive weekend will eventually come to us, but for now, I will take our Monday nights.

My defenses are operational, Loneliness. I am ready when you strike again.

Frankly My Dear, I Would Like Another Glass of Sweet Tea

In one of my favorite Indigo Girls songs, there is a line that I have always related to: "When God made me born a Yankee, he was teasin'." Although I have not spent a lot of time in the South, I am endlessly fascinated by the complex history and culture of the world below the Mason-Dixon Line, and have often felt that my soul belongs in a warm, coastal place, illuminated by the blossoms of magnolias and rocking chairs on breezeways.

Due to the fortuitous intersection of the anniversary of the Civil War (or, depending on who you ask, the War Between the States) and a national history conference that my department was sending someone to attend, I just spent several days in Charleston, South Carolina, a city I have been desperate to visit.

Like a genteel Southern lady should, Charleston seemed to welcome me in like an old friend, and within hours, I was thoroughly entranced by her rows of historic homes, bright vegetation, pervasive connection to 300 years of history, and the lilting accents of the natives. Although my non-history-nerd relations might laugh, there were moments when I closed my eyes and could almost sense the wide-brimmed hat and sweeping skirts, or at different moments, hear the calamity of war and horrific sounds of a slave market.

Amidst moments of imagination, there was a reality of Southern life that came alive for me in the form of the local cuisine. I am not one to turn down any type of local fare, but the food in Charleston elicited a reaction of familiarity and instant infatuation that I have rarely experienced. The cuisine is a mixture of European, African and Caribbean that has marinated for three centuries and emerged as intensely flavorful and comforting, a source of great local pride.

The first night, I ate fried green tomatoes, followed by catfish with cheesy grit cakes and okra, quite possibly the most Southern meal I could have imagined. The grits were nothing like the runny, grainy mess I had imagined; they were creamy and buttery and seemed to belong to the okra, as if they were part of the same plant. The second night, I had she-crab soup (quite a difference between he and she crabs, according to the locals), with crab cakes, Carolina red rice and collard greens. The greens, like the grits, were a food that raised suspicion, but I discovered in the hot, wilted greens an unexpectedly rich flavor of vinegar, hamhocks and garlic. The final night, I gave in and ordered fried chicken, which was so beautifully crunchy that I almost forgot that it was absolutely unhealthy.

My constant companion, throughout this culinary adventure, was a glass of sweet tea. For Midwesterners, iced tea is served unsweetened, unless you add a packet of Sweet and Low or Splenda yourself. But in the South, sweet tea is brewed sweet, and the result is perfect companion to the spicy, buttery, or peppery meal on your plate. I think I drank five or six glasses each day, reveling in the knowledge that no matter where we were in Charleston, the sweet tea would be waiting for me.

Although the Yankee in me to too strong to suppress at this point, I will always feel an overwhelming desire to be intimate with the South. Maybe it is the history, or maybe it is the natural elements, maybe it is the fact that I would wear a hoop skirt to clean my house and stroll down Summit Avenue, if such behavior was not viewed as completely weird. Or maybe it is the allure of how all of those elements meld so seamlessly in something as simple as a bed of grits or a glass of sweet tea.

In Defense of Meatloaf

It is a nightly source of frustration that our preschooler, the child of two foodies, refuses to eat most anything but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and grapes. Tonight, I labored over lobster and asparagus risotto, patiently stirring up a minor masterpiece, only to watch my child stare blankly at her plate and sit with an unchewed piece of delicious, buttery lobster in her mouth for twenty minutes.

Every night, I use my best negotiation skills to get something other than noodles into my child's stomach. I am not above pleading or bribery or threats, but even with my best tactics, dinner generally becomes a forty-five-minute showdown.

There are a few exceptions to this battle of wills. Cheesy pasta is one. Grilled cheese is another. Any of the usual childhood fare generally goes down pretty easily. But remarkably, the grown-up food that always disappears from her little pink plate is one that often frightens off the actual grown-ups: meatloaf.

The word "meatloaf" sounds slightly horrific. A "loaf of bread" brings to mind an aromatic, butter-slathered treat. But a "loaf of meat" sounds ghastly, a lump of dry crumbly hamburger served as a method of torture, probably alongside some manner of wilted Brussels sprout or other scary vegetable.

In reality, meatloaf made right is the best kind of comfort food. Mine, made with tomato sauce and rolled around a generous helping of cheese, is my grandma's recipe. Every time I make it, I feel like I'm channeling the finer elements of domesticity: hearty meals around a crowded table, setting the foundation for childhood memories of full bellies and lively discussions. Maybe it's my Midwestern heart, but the familiarity of meat and potatoes, particularly in the form of a warm, melty meatloaf and a-little-lumpy mashed potatoes, makes me feel at home in a way that few other foods can.

If you have been long separated from meatloaf, I encourage you to give it another chance. It is not fancy, or sophisticated, and we all eat ours slathered in ketchup, but you might be surprised at how un-frightening it can be. Just ask my three-year-old. It is on her short list of "best foods ever."

An Evolving History of Food with Friends

I am not alone, as a wife and mother in my early 30s, in feeling very much defined by those two roles. Although I do work full-time at a job I love, many of my thoughts and most of my evenings are taken hostage, albeit willingly, by the needs of two adorable children and one fantastic husband.

Every once in a while, however, I glimpse a flash of my life pre-family and yearn, just a little bit, for the days when Saturdays were completely mine, when leaving the house was a 30-second grab-the-purse-and-go affair, when more books were read than gathered dust, rather than vice versa.

A never-fail remedy for this lapse into "where did my 20s go?" nostalgia is a night out with my high school girlfriends. Many women, I think, have some version of this group: a handful of women you have known since junior high or high school or college who, despite gaps in your friendship due to distance or life changes, remain a cherished link to a time when you began the slow move out of childhood.

We do not meet up often, simply because of the inevitable busyness of our lives, but when we do, it is a gathering of several hours over a meal at a restaurant or our homes that always leaves me feeling both slightly older and slightly younger. These are women that I have known for almost 20 years. Back then, we were girls navigating the labyrinth of high school as a herd, following a similar path that would quickly diverge after graduation. Now, some of us are wives, some of us are mothers, all of us are working in different careers, and all of us have settled back in our home state, after some detours along the way.

The other night, after we all gathered at Chef Matt's restaurant, I thought about all the meals that I have shared with these women throughout my life and how those meals changed as we did. In junior high, we consumed untold amounts of pizza and Coke in our parents' basements. In high school, we spent hours at Bakers Square and Perkins, eating chicken strips and pancakes and likely irritating every other patron in the store with our nonstop laughing at nonsense. In college, we ate handfuls of Doritos to balance out the beer.

Now, although more grown-up and slightly more subdued, we still get together around dinner tables. We eat at nicer restaurants now, or potluck in our own dining rooms, but the spirit of our gathering is still the same. We all have the grown-up lives we never thought would come, but manage to maintain the connections that brought us together when we were young.

I would not trade my life or my family to have those younger years back, even for a day, but I love that I, and a half-dozen of my oldest friends, can still conjure them up in our 30s version of the Perkins camp-out. In 50 years, as we are sharing half-sandwiches at our 4:00 dinners, I believe those younger years will still be alive for all of us.

A Modified February "Food Week"

Each year around this time, restaurants in Minneapolis and St. Paul prepare pre-fixed, coursed menus for lower prices, as part of a wonderful event called Food Week. Maybe it is a way for restaurants to strut their stuff a little, to lure in customers who are normally Applebee's-goers, or simply to provide one bright moment at the end of a claustrophic winter.

Chef Matt and I used to attend Food Week, pre-kids, but have dropped off somewhat in the past few years. Nevertheless, we still like to peruse the Food Week menus online and sigh at little at the amazing concoctions chefs present for this fantastic week of local cuisine.

Although we cannot attend the official event anymore, we managed to create a Food Week of our own. Last week, as I acknowledged the passing of another year of my life, we scheduled a series of delicious meals, both restaurant-made and homemade, and decided that Food Week on your own terms can be almost as fabulous as the real thing.

We started with Valentine's Day, a holiday we do not usually celebrate. But other people do, so coupons for cheap food abound. With the kids at daycare, we split a giant plate of barbecue and a steamy bread pudding over lunch, because nothing says romance like "Hey, you have barbecue sauce all over your face."

Two days later, we called in a grandma and went to a local swanky steakhouse that, luckily for our checkbook, is in the same family of restaurants as Matt's. The server wheeled out the cuts of meat on a cart, including one actually named a "Bludgeon of Beef," and I sensed a small twinge of something feral deep inside as I ordered 24 ounces of steak, just for myself. I felt a little like a rich man's wife that night; that is, until I packaged up half of the food we ordered and silently began to plan how I could use the leftovers in several meals at home.

On my actual birthday, my parents made a February-Thanksgiving feast, with turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy and encouragement to eat more. And finally, in a culmination that is becoming tradition at our house, Matt made homemade gnocchi, a pillowy potato dumpling with a hint of the potato-graininess amidst an otherwise smooth, chewy texture. He tossed the gnocchi in a cream sauce with lobster and peas, and for that moment of bliss, February in Minnesota melted away and we were eating four-cheese gnocchi at a dusky restaurant in Rome.

It is certainly not plausible, or healthy, to eat this way every week. But once, or twice, a year, a personal Food Week is a welcome getaway from the drudgery of the usual ... especially if you can get it for cheap, or free at your parents' house.

A Second-Trimester Love Letter

Dear Baby,

It's your mommy again. By this time, you are more aware of me around you, and I have felt your little kicks and punches for weeks now, mostly when I am very still. It is always a comfort to me, every time I feel the little popcorn tumbles within.

Second trimester is somewhat of a honeymoon period for both of us. You still have room to swim, and I still have room to breathe. These are the months sandwiched between the sickness and dry cereal, and the swollen ankles and unsightly waddle. You are behaving more and more like you will in the outside world -- swallowing and blinking and sleeping for long periods -- and I can take great pleasure in this miracle, while still able to put on my own socks.

As your taste buds form, your little memory will begin to store away the flavors that you will later recognize while perched in your high chair. Sometimes I look at your sister and brother and wonder if their wild love of bananas stems from my daily intake of the lovely yellow fruit, or if their stubborn refusal to eat plain white rice was born of my preference for potatoes.

I hope that you will not only absorb a taste for all the foods that I love, but also a love for food in general. For your sake, I will eat a thousand different things so you will have an experienced palate coming into this world. The first time your sister tried lamb, wrapped in a warm pita and drizzled with tangy tzatziki sauce, she devoured it like she'd eaten it every day of her life. Your brother, first presented with scrambled eggs, could not get them in his chubby little hands fast enough.

It won't be long until I am too big to fit anything in but juice and applesauce. Until the third trimester arrives, though, your early culinary education will continue to include courses in French, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, Mediterranean and American. When you are old enough to eat such things on your own, when the days of rice cereal are over, I will be sure to look for the gleam of recognition in your eyes the first time you taste a spoonful of lamb ragout and hope, just maybe, that you will fall in love with it, too.