Two holiday pies to try

15 Dec

It’s that time of year – bundles of holiday cards are arriving in my mailbox.  Each shiny photo card of friends I love reminds me that I didn’t send any this year.  Not because I was too busy, or because I forgot, but because I didn’t have a card-worthy photo.  How vain of me.   I know.  But if I’m going to send something to the masses, it better be good.  And this year, I just didn’t get that perfect cover photo.  Admit it – we all receive those photo cards that give us pause and leave us wondering why THAT photo was the one. I refuse to be that card.  So I choose not to send any.

2006: Santa brings comfort and joy.

2006: Santa brings comfort and joy.

The obvious answer would be to send a regular holiday card that doesn’t have my kids’ sweet mugs plastered all over it, but let’s face it – that will just end up in someone’s recycling bin.  And I don’t blame them.  I’m risking getting myself kicked off of multiple mailing lists with this rant, but I find the act of sending holiday cards interesting.  I love hearing from friends, and the thought is certainly genuine and appreciated, but shouldn’t I just tell you in person or through a phone call what I would say in card?  If I’m sending a photoless card, then I might as well save a stamp and call you to say happy holidays.  And it’s likely that the phone call would lead to a real conversation and a real reconnection.  So I think I’m going to start a new tradition – a holiday call, not a holiday card.

And there are a subset of holiday cards that arrive with a motive tucked neatly into the envelope.  Do you really think that my trash man gave me a card because he genuinely wants to wish me happy holidays?  No way.  He wants the case of beer I leave for him every year.  It’s a little dance we have.  He gives me a card, I leave beer, and he wheels my trash can back down the driveway for the rest of the year.  Happy holidays wrapped in a gentle bribe with a bow on top.

Two holiday pies you must try

As the holidays ramp up, there are two pies that will absolutely be on my table.  These are not new recipes to the blog, but ones I should remind everyone about because they are great winter pies.  I’m in the process of experimenting with a new one, but it’s not ready for face time yet. Click on the links and they will take you to the posts with the full recipes.

Pear Eggnog Winter Pie

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This is such a great pie for the holidays.  Pears tossed with fresh ginger and covered in an eggnog custard that is spiked with nutmeg and rum. Very easy and less time intensive then other pies.

Cranberry Apple Holiday Pie

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This pie screams holidays with cranberries that are complimented by apple, cinnamon and orange zest.  It’s so pretty once it’s topped with a lattice crust.

Can this count as my card to all of you?  Happy Holidays!

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Crust or bust: A ridiculously detailed tutorial for those who are scared to make crust

17 Nov

“I could never make crust.” That is the #1 reason people give for not making pie. The prepping, making filling and the baking all pale in comparison to how worried people are about making crust. No judgment here – I totally get it. Crust was the bane of my existence for easily the first six months of my year of pie. I poured over books, scoured the internet, and ate more chewy crust than most people do in a lifetime.

I’ve found crust to be more forgiving than most cookbooks make it out to be if you stick to some simple intuitive guidelines. So here is my best shot at giving you some blog-induced courage to go make yourself some crust this Thanksgiving.  You can find my recipe on the main page where it says “crust recipe” or click here.

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Pie it Forward Election Edition: The Woman Who Made Pie for the President

11 Nov

The story that follows is one that I wrote in my early months of learning to make pie about a visit with Mrs. Eason who made pie for President Obama.  In the months following that visit, I continued to stay in touch with Mrs. Eason.  Once, she called me and asked me to bring a pie to her upstairs neighbor, so I did.  During the holidays, I took her a tiny Christmas tree and we set it up on top of her TV next to her dancing trophies and decorated it with tiny bulbs from Drug Mart.  As time passed, she would call me for no reason.  Some nights I would answer my phone and just talk to her.  We would talk about the same thing – pie.  She would scold me for suggesting certain fillings would be tasty and tell me that her peach crisps were the best.  Pie, church, Mr. Eason, repeat for the next call.  We always ended with how Mr. Eason was doing, her husband who was in a nursing home.

As it always seems to happen, my good intentions to stay in touch with her were suffocated by work and kids and distance.  I thought about her all the time, but the phone calls became further apart and before I knew it a year had passed.  So had Mr. Eason.  I was heartbroken for her when I saw the obituary.  I made a mental note that I needed to get back in touch with her and print her the pictures we had taken when we went to see him.  And as it always seems to happen, my good intentions were once again drowned out by life.  Until it was too late and Mrs. Eason passed.

I was looking at her obituary tonight.  Survived only by a guardian.  I wish I had gone to her funeral.  I wish I understood that flying into someone’s life isn’t just a fun hobby.  That sometimes it’s interpreted as an offer of companionship and if I’m going to open that door, then I should follow through.  Offering kindness and gratitude is generally a good thing, but Mrs. Eason taught me that I should tend more closely to the relationships I cultivate if I want to stay on this path.

Out of respect for Mrs. Eason and her willingness to let me into her life, I invite you to hear her story.

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F-U, Fertility

15 Oct

October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Heavy stuff. I’ve never heard of such a day, but I saw it on Facebook via a friend who was honoring three babies she had lost.

The subject of pregnancy and infant loss always strikes a chord with me. I’m never sure if I’m in the club or not. I feel like my four early miscarriages don’t give me true street credit to self-identify as someone who has suffered significant loss.

On the other side of the fertility spectrum, I was in a conversation today with a friend who is trying to have a baby. I have numerous friends right now who are facing down the fertility challenge a little later in life. Images of ovaries with padlocks on them, refusing to ovulate because you just blew out your 40th birthday candle flash through my mind as I hear the uncertainty in their voices.

Every time I have these conversations, I get a pit in my stomach because I know what a joke fertility can be. This obscure concept that is nothing short of a superpower can be cruel and misleading. One minute you’re ovulating, the next your ovaries have posted a sign saying closed for the season. One minute the stick is pink, and the next you are getting wheeled into the operating room for a D&C. It’s a joke. Every 14th day of a cycle holds the promise of getting knocked up that month. Every 28th day holds the promise of two lines on the stick. Every stick with two lines holds the promise of a baby in your arms in 9 months. Every ultrasound promises that your baby is ok… for today. And every package of prenatal vitamins holds the promise that someday, your pregnancy will last long enough to get through an entire bottle. Continue reading →

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Almost, maybe, could have been…

18 Sep

I have a life filled with almost-maybes. You know, those times in your life when you have stuck your toe into something and then right when the critical moment came to go full-in, you bailed and headed another direction.  That’s me.  And if memory serves me right, that’s always been me.  I could have been so many things in my life…

I almost played the violin.  I started playing when I was four years old.  I remember falling asleep every night to the Suzuki records, hearing the patterns and allowing the brainwashing melodies to lull me to sleep. I played in recitals with adults and I think I could have been good had I continued.  But I didn’t.  I got bored.

I was almost a gymnast.  I started when I was five and know the exact date of when I did my first round-off back tuck (no handed back flip).  It was 8-8-88 and I was 10.  I was fearless and loved tumbling.  I flipped in the back yard, in the living room, in random parking lots.  I could have been really good had I actually practiced.  But I didn’t.  I got distracted.

I was almost a piano player.  I spent my whole life playing the piano by ear, so by the time I was in high school, I signed up for real piano lessons.  Every lesson started with a piano exercise going up and down the scale in complicated patterns.   My teacher told me that she had never seen a student play the exercises so proficiently and so fast.  She even tape recorded me.  She handed me the Maple Leaf Rag, and I played it.  She handed me Clair de Lune and I played it.  What she didn’t know was that I barely practiced.  I always wonder what could have been had I applied myself.  But I didn’t.  I made out with my boyfriend instead. Continue reading →

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Lose yourself when it comes to someone else’s loss

6 Jul

I’ve been watching from afar over the past few months as someone I went to high school with has been fighting tirelessly to save her seven year old daughter from Neuroblastoma cancer.  Recently, I watched in disbelief as she chronicled her daughter’s last days, and then on June 28th, her final breaths.

I say from afar because I mean just that.  We are not close in our adult life.  We had a tumultuous friendship in high school wrought with fights and manipulation, but sprinkled with some of the most fun I have ever had.  She was a spirited, boisterous, irreverent young woman – just the type of personality I needed to pull me from my rough waters of mean girls and stupid boys.  We clicked in chemistry class and I was immediately drawn to her no-nonsense style and her wicked sense of humor.  One might call her a bad influence, but she was truly a good person and inspired me to relax a little and find more fun in my teenage life.

That year, we filled our days quoting the most recent Saturday Night Live skits and  our weekends memorizing all of the lines to The Breakfast Club.  We had inside jokes… “Cheese and Rice!” instead of “Jesus Christ!”… after all, you can’t be teenage friends if you don’t have some ridiculous joke to define your relationship.  There was also a fair amount of inappropriate fun including skipping class, stealing a rubber chicken key chain from Spencer’s at the mall, and making a vodka Screwdriver and eating it with Captain Crunch in place of the milk.

Our friendship was exhilarating and I loved it.  But the reason our short friendship will always stay with me is because of a road trip that we took together.  I was allowed to go with her to visit her sister on the Ohio University campus.  I didn’t know much about OU other than a couple of ex-boyfriends went there, so naturally I was intrigued.  We sped off early that morning and headed two and a half hours south to Appalachia.  I had never been to that part of Ohio, and the minute I saw the campus peek over the rolling foothills, I was smitten.  I was fifteen and had never seen a college campus in full swing.  The buildings were big!  The campus was big!  The boys were so big!  It was amazing.  I was where I needed to be.

On our ride down, she played some music that I had never heard, but I loved it.  We stopped by a funky music store at the end of our trip and she found the tape for me to buy – the Eagles, Hotel California.  We played it the whole way back singing and laughing.  I came home from that trip changed.  Changed not because I now knew the words to every song on that album, but I knew where I was headed when high school ended in two years.

I can’t say exactly why we grew apart – I suspect it was typical high school obstructions like boys, new friends, new interests.  We both went to OU and have since moved away from our hometowns.  I hadn’t thought about her at all until Facebook kept suggesting a friend for me.  I didn’t recognize the name, so I never paid that much attention to it.  But one day, I took a second glance and it was her.  All of the memories came rushing back and I was interested to see how she was doing. Continue reading →

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Black and Blue Pie

30 Jun

I have a change addiction.  Not change like shiny quarters and pennies, but actual change, as in the verb.  I find myself always working towards the next big thing.  In my 20’s it was easy.  Change came around every year or so.  A new apartment, a new job, an engagement, a wedding – I was reveling in what life had to offer and embracing new adventures annually.  Once we were married, changing partners was off the table, so it was a change of scene.  We bought our first house and a year later we bought our second house.  It was such a high counting down the days until the landscape of my life shifted dramatically.

Once we moved into the second house, the market plummeted and house-hopping was no longer a responsible thing to do.  So what would the next year bring?  Babies.  Changing it up every year was easy – get pregnant, raise the kid, get pregnant again, raise two kids.  Most people would feel perfectly content at this point, but nooo, not us.  Off to get a new house….again.

I take full responsibility for most decisions in our life.  My husband is always on board, but I push us off each cliff.  I can feel it coming and before I know it, I’ve uncovered something new for us to start working towards.  I started to panic after we were settled in this last house.  I loved my job, I loved our new house, the boys were great…now what?  Obviously a dog.  A year after the dog, I got the itch again and convinced myself (and my husband) that we needed a third child.  And off we went, getting pregnant.  It wasn’t until we lost that pregnancy that my change addiction caught up with me.  We were sad – we truly were excited and had embraced the idea of a third child.  But as we walked out of the doctor’s office, a strange feeling of relief came over me.   It was like the universe had stopped me in my tracks and gave me an out – pushed me back a step and told me to sit tight.  So I did what any reasonable woman would do in that situation – told my husband to get a vasectomy.  And he did what any reasonable man would  – he got one.

I thought that was the grand finale of my change addiction.  I started baking pies, and was content.  Until a year passed and I felt that familiar feeling – I was on the cliff and so I jumped into a new job.  Not four months had passed after starting my new job and I was on the edge again, laying down on the ground hanging my head over searching for exciting things below.  I tried to get us on board with adoption – I even sat in on a webinar about adopting from the Ukraine.  But my husband had the sense to draw the line and not give in to my pleas for an international baby.  As a compromise, he resurrected an idea that we had years ago to start hosting exchange students when the boys were old enough.  Sold!  I threw myself into researching the process and I kid you not, we were matched with a 15 year old girl from Germany within one week.  She’s coming in a month and we are so excited. What a fun adventure we are all in for!

About 12 years have passed since I first took notice of my addiction to change.  Looking back over what I have acquired through jumping off cliffs, I am grateful for it all.  I think it’s time to reframe this addiction I have.  Rather than feeling like it’s unhealthy to always be seeking change, I’m going to regard my life as a constant state of forward motion.  A forward motion that propels us to to the next adventure and uncovers excitement, joy and shapes what is the life we call ours.  If the past 12 years have brought 6 pregnancies, 3 houses, 3 jobs, 2 kids, 1 dog and 1 exchange student, I cannot wait to see what the next 12 have to offer.

One thing that has not changed?  Pie.  And boy do I have a good pie to share with you.

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Straight Up Strawberry Rhubarb Pie

27 May

One pie that everyone needs to have in their back pocket is a full-on strawberry rhubarb pie.  I’m starting to bore myself with so many posts that mention rhubarb, but whether you like this flavor or not, it’s a show stopper in the late spring and early summer months.  So, I figured I should put an official recipe on here for an actual pie – not just the mini pies or the pie in a jar.

The pie filling is exactly the same as the mini pies and the jar pies, just prepared differently.  For the non-traditional pies, you need to pre-cook the filling, but for a full pie, you keep your filling uncooked.  This is an adaptation of my grandmother’s recipe, and in my humble opinion, I think it’s the best one you’ll find.

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Devil’s Food White-Out Cake

18 May

I’m envious of people who have hard skills that they can offer to others.   Whether it’s to make money, to barter or just to be nice, they have a skill that others need and they can take it anywhere.

I have benefited immensely from people like that over the years.  Cousin Abby does hair (and saves me a fortune); Uncle John waterproofs basements, pours concrete and muds flawless drywall (and saves me a fortune); Father-in-Law Frank can paint a room with his eyes closed (and saves me time and a fortune); our good friend Matt is an electrician (and we owe him our first born grandchild for the time he has put into the houses we have owned); and Brother-in-law Aaron is a mechanic (and saves me a fortune and my sanity).  How we got so lucky to have so many people in our lives who selflessly offer up their time and talent is beyond me.

I’m frequently left wondering what my husband and I can give in return.  We just don’t have obvious hard skills that are in high demand.  My husband is a middle school math teacher and I work in fundraising, and before that was a sex educator (yep).  So between the two of us, we can teach your kid math, the birds and the bees and raise you money.  I need my hair cut every 6 weeks, but how often does one need to give their kid “the talk?”  My skills just don’t come in handy that often.  As my hair keeps growing, our rooms need repainting and our house keeps falling apart, I continue to carry a certain degree of guilt for not having an equally sought-after skill to offer in return.

My point was driven home a year or so ago when our Leadership Team at my former job took a strengths assessment.  We were doing some group therapy and read Strength Based Leadership by Tom Rath.  As part of the experience, we took a survey to identify our primary strength.  As we went around the table, my coworkers took turns discussing their strengths such as Strategic, Analytical, Developer, and Activator.  Strong words that had obvious associations with hard skills that you need in the workplace.  Then it was my turn to announce my primary strength…Woo.  Woo?  What the heck did that mean?  Exactly what you might think.  I can charm people, bring people in and develop interest and excitement.  While that’s a lovely quality, it’s not a hard transferable skill!  How many business professionals are out there touting their above average Woo skills?  They’re not.  They are DEVELOPING STRATEGIC plans, ANALYZING revenue cycles, ACTIVATING projects and seeing results.  Not batting their eyes and being charming. I envision myself on a street corner with a sandwich board waving people in to get their taxes done.  Now that takes a certain degree of woo factor.

My little foray into pie-making has started to help me fill this void in my life.  All of a sudden, people are asking me to make them pie and I am gladly offering my services.  I’ve been waiting so long to be able to do something for my friends and family.  Finally, I can help with something that not many other people have the time, interest or energy to do.  Pie!  Look, I can still give a mean birth control presentation, but until anyone needs that, I’ll be in the kitchen.

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Pie-in-a-Jar: Strawberry Rhubarb

6 May

Pie is my zen. Time and again, I’m always surprised by the random thoughts that enter my mind as I clear my head and focus on making pie.  Over the past few weeks, my pietifications have centered around a funny phenomenon that I now affectionately call the Disappearing Mommy.

I’ve been seeing articles recently about how social media – Facebook specifically – can lower your self esteem and influence your self perception in more negative than positive ways (thank GOODNESS Facebook did not exist when I was a teenager).  While I’m sure these articles make very good points, I just usually shrug them off and feel grateful that I would never allow something as trite as Facebook to influence how I feel about myself.

As usual, I’m a walking contradiction and have realized that Facebook has actually begun to affect the way I see my life as told through photos.   Not a day goes by that I don’t see a beautiful picture posted of a friend in my newsfeed. In the age of Instagram and Hipstamatic i phone apps, beautiful, artsy pictures are being posted left and right.

These women post new profile pictures of themselves more frequently than I can come up with something witty to say in my status update.  The photos are cool – maybe a profile of her staring off in the distance, or a sassy head tilt accompanied by some sun glasses.  Or they are with their children, lost in a gaze or walking in the shadows.  These are not the same pictures that I have of myself – mostly in the middle of talking, chewing or eyes shut.  That’s when I even come across a picture of myself.  See, I wonder who is taking pictures of these women?  Do they take them themselves?  Do they have husbands or partners who fawn over them and carry a camera at all times? Is there a well kept secret that families are hiring professional photographers on a regular basis much like the revelation I just had that a majority of my friends hire housekeepers?

The reality is, even if I wanted to post pictures of myself, I don’t have many to choose from.  And to make matters worse, I don’t have many pictures of me with my children.  I discovered this when my son had an assignment to bring a picture of himself and his Mom to show and tell.  As I was tearing the house apart looking for a picture, I realized that photos of him and his Dad were in abundance, but other than the “just born” photos, the pictures of the two of us were slim.  I finally found one from three years ago, but at least it was the two of us.

And so the photos of my friends and their children flood my Facebook news feed and I wonder what my photo legacy has become.  If something happened to me tomorrow, what snapshots would tell the story of my life with them?

I’ve become the disappearing mommy whose time behind the lens has had the unintended consequence of cheating her out of the opportunity to document her life.  Will they remember how I buried my face under their ear to kiss their necks and smell them?  Will they remember our dance parties in the living room before dinner?  Will they remember that I liked to jump on trampolines and sing karaoke?  I don’t know – no one is taking pictures of that stuff.

I do not have many photos of me and my own Mom.  I have a few family photos, but I honestly don’t know if I have a photo of just the two of us.  Has she always been the one behind the camera?  And if not behind it, avoiding it?  My family is facing generations of disappearing mommies.  Mothers who have created countless photos of the life that happens around them, yet appear all too infrequently on the other side of the lens.

To remedy the disappearing mommy syndrome, I decided that I just need to start asking people to take my picture when the situation warrants.  So, for the past couple of weeks, I have done just that and, you guessed it… posted the pictures on Facebook.

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