I really like to bake pies, and in the autumn, of course, its time for apple. Usually I try to bake an apple pie to celebrate the first day of fall, but this year I was way too busy feeling sorry for myself to make the time. Yesterday I got over it long enough to peel some apples and find my pastry blender, ending up with three crazy pies, as I named them until I found out they are called galettes. Regular two-crust pies are too big for Saint Mike and I to eat, although I confess I do, so I have taken to folding up whatever filling I have made in one crust and making several odd, rough pies, some of which can be given away to our neighbors. I cook them on cookie sheets and dust them with powdered sugar. I think they are very satisfying to eat, and even to look at sometimes, although the beauty of a finely edged two crust pie is hard to beat.
I learned from my mother that pie-making is a hard, frustrating, ticklish business. I found more than one of her piecrusts in the garbage, and her swearing she would never bother again. I helped many times to patch the fragmented dough that didn't quite make it from rolling board to pie plate. You would think that would have put me off baking them myself, but pie is my favorite dessert and so I took it as a challenge and learned to do it. I do find that making and rolling pie crust needs my complete attention, which is probably why my mother had trouble; she was always trying to do two things at once. Now over the anxiety of pie-making, I can't think of anything more comforting and nostalgic than the ritual movements of rolling out, peeling and crimping or anything more delicious than the smell of a pie in the oven.
