At Peace with making Summer Pies

Some people seek serenity through prayer or meditation.  Others find their happy place in gardening or painting.  Some even find peace in mundane, household chores such as ironing or vacuuming. 

For me, there is Zen to be found in the art of making a summer pie.

Summer pies are completely different from winter pies.  During the winter, I only make pies around the holidays.  They are pies born of obligation, and they contain ingredients I associate with the dark, cold months: pumpkin, apples, evaporated milk and nutmeg. 

Summer pies are made for pure pleasure, containing fruits that conjure images of warmth and sunlight: blueberries just picked from a Nantucket high bush on a sunny day; peaches shipped north from Georgia or east from California, their fuzzy skin producing friction against my hands as I rinse them under the faucet.  Peaches always remind me of my son after he’s gotten one of his summer buzz cuts.  Strawberries hulled and halved, then combined with slices of tart rhubarb, tossed with tapioca and sugar and poured into a waiting pie shell.

I’ll often mix and match fruits to see which combinations produce the biggest sighs of contentment from my family.  Peaches are wonderful on their own, but also play well with blueberries or raspberries.  Strawberry and rhubarb are old friends who prefer the company of each other, so I don’t dare introduce a third wheel into that relationship.  However, when rhubarb isn’t looking, I’ll combine strawberries with raspberries, blueberries and blackberries for a no holds barred, all-berry extravaganza.  My husband maintains that blueberries and raspberries are the most flavorful combination out of all my experiments.  Personally, I believe that summer pies are like summer parties: no matter what combination of participants you include, the result is sure to be a hit.

Once the filling has been determined, the next step in my Zen meditation is making crust.  I know many who prefer to purchase crusts ready-made and, while there was a time I would consider that cheating, I’ve since reconsidered my position. I’ve made my own piecrust for years, both out of pride and necessity.  My mother taught me how to make my own crust, and this skill came in handy when my husband developed food allergies and couldn’t safely eat store bought piecrust.  Recently, I’ve discovered a ready-made crust that’s safe for him, and there is something to be said for the convenience of just unfolding it into a pie plate and pouring in the ingredients.  But the taste just doesn’t compare.  So homemade crust it is.

My  “go to” crust is one made from flour, salt, canola oil and water, what my cookbook refers to as “stir and roll”.  After years of pie making, I’ve gotten my crust down to a science.  Mix the salt and flour together with a fork and pour in the oil.  Gently mix the oil with the dry ingredients using a pastry blender until the dough resembles crumbs.  Ice water is added one tablespoon at a time, using the fork until the dough begins to just come together.  Too little water and the crust crumbles when rolled out; too much and it becomes gummy.  My mother’s best tip was to not handle the dough any more than necessary. If bread dough is a prizefighter that thrives on being pummeled, piecrust is a ballerina; light and fragile, requiring only the gentlest touch to achieve perfection.

After carefully rolling the dough between sheets of waxed paper, next comes the marriage of filling and crust, followed by a tropical honeymoon in the oven.  My family begins salivating like Pavlovian dogs as the scent of bubbling fruit filling entwines with that of flaky pastry crust.  Though they would happily dig in the minute it leaves the oven, I insist that the pie needs several hours, not just to cool, but to allow the filling to set.  There’s no greater culinary crime than wolfing down a piece of watery pie.

That evening, once the dinner dishes have been cleared and the fireflies are just beginning to appear, my family gathers round the table as I slide a perfect piece of summer pie onto each person’s plate.  The whipped cream is passed and as I watch each person’s face light up from the fruits of my labor, I sigh as well.  They have joined me in my happy place.