The Little Things

 I grew up ten minutes from my grandparents–my mothers parents. They have always been like second parents to me. I can say, I’ve been lucky enough to have two sets of great parents.

I was always at their house, swimming in the pool, having family dinners, birthdays, picking fruit in the backyard, cooking in the kitchen, always eating. If my granny had her way, you didn’t leave without a bowl of ice cream or something to eat–I never complained.

When my granny passed away suddenly almost four years ago, my granddad’s health quickly began declining. He was in his late 80′s at the time, and was beginning to have health problems, but mostly her not being there anymore was killing him. I remember when I was little I had two hamsters, and when one died, a few days later the other one followed. Too little to comprehend such a travesty, I remember my mom explaining to me the other had died from love sickness. He just missed her too much. Years later, this story would continue to comfort me.

I recently took a trip home to see him, after the news that one of his cancers had worsened. My uncle who lives in London also made the trip, along with his eldest daughter, my favorite cousin, who lives in Dubai. She brought her youngest of three daughters–Isabella, just turned one. We’d all be meeting Issy for the first time. None of us wanted to think of it as a goodbye trip, but we knew that it might be. I was glad there would be more family and a baby, it would make things easier.

My cousin picked me up from the airport, where I was also greeted by a chubby little Issy. She had big blue eyes–Smith eyes.

I wasn’t in my grandparents’ house more than 15 minutes before I was in the kitchen…baking. I found figs growing on one of their trees far out back by the shed whose branches my granny used to stand under, feasting on figs, and couldn’t resist. It was natural, where I felt most at home, where I’d learned to cook. I did a lot of cooking that weekend, to keep my mind off things, to keep other people’s minds off of things.

My uncle arrived later that evening. He has lived in London since he was 18 and has an English accent, which is funny considering my granny, his mother, had a very thick southern accent. He is quite the character.

It was the perfect few days, filled with all the right things…
Lots of baking…

My uncle, who also loves to cook, had a pie-off with me; he insisted on showing me a crust without butter. I’ll admit it wasn’t bad, but not using butter is sacrilege.

There was lots of music making; more than one person in my family plays the bazooki.

At some point everyone began dancing to Salt N Peppas Push It, Including my Grandfather. Unfortunately there is no photographic evidence of this. You’ll have to trust me that it was amazing.

My cousin got her first tattoo…

One of the best things was watching Izzy and my granddad interact–a 91 year age difference, like watching time interact. Seeing the two of them I thought of all the things he’s done, all these people he’d brought into this world–this family he’d made. He’d lived to meet three great grandchildren.

We sat around and listened to him tell stories, went to doctors’ appointments with him, held his hand, swam in the pool, sprayed Issy with the hose. We laughed, we cried, spent time with each other. We had never really got to all be together like that, and it was nice.

It was sad to say goodbye to everyone. I wish it could always be like that; it was magical. I squeezed my granddad tight and told him to ‘give em hell’. I tried not to think about whether this would be the last time. It would happen sooner or later, I’d accepted that, but I hoped I’d see him again. I’ll never forget those few days.

Whenever I visit home, I always make pie. They will never be my grandmother’s pies but I’d like to think they’re close. I have use many dough recipes, but this one is my absolute favorite–it has a lovely flake to it, and gets along well with any filling. My granddad always tells me they’re as good as my Granny’s–which is reason enough to stick to this one. I have never been able to find the recipe she used; the search continues.

Pie Dough

3 3/4 c. AP Flour
1T sugar
1t salt
1/2t baking powder
1 3/4 c. unsalted butter cubed*
2 t. sour cream
2/3 c. ice cold water or vodka
1 t vinegar

*If making it by hand, and you happen to have hot hands, I have lava hands, I like to use the trick of shredding the butter with a cheese shredder. I stick it in the freezer for a few minutes before I do this–to keep it extra cold. It’s one of my favorite tricks.

Directions:
Cut butter into dries until the dough resembles pea size bits. You can also do this in a food processor. Add all the liquids at once. The dough will be slightly crumbly, avoid overmixing. Divide and shape into disks. Chill for 2 hours. The dough should yield enough for three pies. I like to freeze the other discs—or make three pies.

On a floured surface roll out dough to 1/8 inch thickness and assemple in 9 inch pie pan.

Let chill 20 minutes before baking, this will keep it from shrinking. Once chilled, prick buttom part with a fork. I don’t usually use pie weights, because after a year of culinary school I can’t stand the smell of baked beans–but if you prefer them, that works just as well.

Depending on what kind of pie you’re baking, your time will vary. If making a pie that requires a pre-baked crust bake for 20 minutes, remove from the oven, gently press down in raised bits and return to the oven for another 10 minutes or until golden brown.

If you’re making a fruit pie, toss fruit accordingly, I usually, depending on the sweetness of the fruit, use anywhere from 1 T of sugar to a 1/4 c. I also add, 1 T. of lemon juice, 1 t of flour and a little sprinkle of cinnamon. The pie will usually take 45-100 in the oven depending on the fruit.

Be creative. Once you master the dough, it’s hard to make bad pie.

I do...?

“Do you want to make our wedding cake?”

“I do…”

I have recently learned making a wedding cake is a commitment, much like marriage. It was around Thanksgiving time when Jordan and Katy asked me to make their wedding cake. They would be getting married in late July.

I met Jordan at Paley’s Place during my internship, before working at the restaurant I do now. He worked Pantry. He had a giant smile and had recently proposed to his girlfriend–that was all I really knew about him. I’d been working at at my new job for a couple of weeks when my Pastry Chef asked if I’d be interested in making their cake. I hadn’t made a cake in a while, and I’d only ever made one wedding cake for class, but I was excited about the offer.

I met Katy and Jordan at their place. I didn’t really know what to expect and the only pictures I had to show them were the green wedding cake I did for class and a steak and chicken cake I’d won scholarships for. They didn’t exactly scream, “trust me, I’m a serious cake maker”

Jordan greeted me in the lobby with a lovebird on his shoulder, “Do you like birds?” I decided to hold off on telling him my parents had a pet crow and that I’d grown up with owls that played with the dogs outside…”yes,” I said.

I met Katy in the apartment. They were cute. I didn’t know Jordan well and I’d just met Katy, but I could tell they were perfect for each other. After all, they had a lovebird.

Fortunately for me, they didn’t ask to see any pictures, and the cake they wanted was fairly simple.–a white cake, covered in meringue mushrooms. We threw some flavor ideas around, finally deciding on a red velvet, with a berry jam, coffee syrup and mascarpone frosting. A little twist on the classic–tiramisu.

I didn’t see them again until their wedding day.

I spent the eight months in between, practicing things here and there, eliminating any potential surprises. I had even prepared for the heat–my occupational hazard. Jordan and Katy were great and had left it in my hands for the most part.

I didn’t start the cake till the week of, to keep it all as fresh as possible, leaving little room for surprises. The mushrooms were finished, nearly a hundred of them. Almost everything went smoothly, the tiers– four of them, had all been stacked. Each layer was soaked in an espresso syrup, then covered with a raspberry jam and a layer of mascarpone frosting.

I learned the hard way that mascarpone and a bit of shortening don’t get along very well. I NEVER use shortening, but in the summer when your cakes most important layer runs the risk of melting–you make sacrifices. This sacrifice nearly cost me my frosting. Luckily, with a little bit of imagination, a large tub of mascarpone, and a grocery story up the street, the cake got frosted. In the end I chose flavor over sun tricks–I just can’t do shortening.

Delivering a cake is not for the faint-hearted. This is what it all comes down to, this is where your commitment is tested, your stress multiplied. There are no mistakes at this point. There is really no great way to do it; you are sort of forced to throw all your eggs in one basket, crank the air conditioning and cross your fingers. With a forty minute drive ahead of me, I brought a friend to keep watch over the cakes, keep me calm and to blame if anything happened.

After getting a bit lost, and driving to what seemed like the edge of the world, we arrived everything intact. Jordan greeted me with his big grin and his absolutely stunning new wife. They were pleased; I was relieved. It was a beautiful wedding.

It had been a long year, leading up to four very stressful days, but it was worth it.

I wish those lovebirds a life time of happiness!

We Must All Begin Somewhere

Here we go. This is the first one, the first entry. I’ve been thinking about this one for months now…since January 1st. It was my New Year’s resolution: write a blog. That’s right, I’ve been thinking about this here single entry for nearly a year! You’d think I was having a baby–I’m not.

I am officially sweating over this one.

Where do I begin, how do I start, what am I going for here? Do I start with my life story–it’s a long one. Should I tell you that I fell in love with cooking long ago watching my granny make a pie? Or that I didn’t even really begin cooking till I went away to college, when I longed for broccoli–just the way my grandfather made it. Yep, up until that point my major success involving food was eating.

Chewy is barking, Chewy is always barking, “Start the blog already! You’ve been making that same puzzled face for months!” he barks. I adopted him two years ago at the pound; he’d been found on the beach. I like to think he dug his way there–from China. They had already named him Chewbacca when I met him–I didn’t have the heart to change it. He’s my fearless sidekick, lover of food and naps–we have a lot in common. You’ll hear more about him later.

I am committed to pressing post and the end of all this, regardless of what comes out–this first one is really about getting my feet wet.

If all else fails I hope we can at least call whatever this becomes–interesting.

This is what I know: My love of food is a long story. It’s a love that’s grown over time, through successes and failures, through friends and family, through travel and learning, through love and loss. It’s a love that continues to grow. Many of my favorite stories take place at the dinner table, or in the kitchen. They involve food; my love of food is big. I hear it’s contagious.
And so we begin….