No More Mr. Nice Pie
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COMFORT IN A CUSTARD PIE

8/25/2017

3 Comments

 
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Custard pie doesn’t ask very much of you. With a mere flick of the whisk, eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla are coaxed into the most humble of fillings. It is exactly what you want to eat when you don’t know what you want to eat. Skip the fluted glass Pyrex dishes and the water bath. Opt for the lightly baked pie shell and don’t be stingy with the nutmeg. This will require rifling through the kitchen cabinet, dropping jars of pink peppercorns and poultry seasoning smuggled back from Provence on your exposed ankles. You will circle the lazy susan of spices again and again before unearthing the ancient grater with a few remnants of nutmeg. Tiny flecks floating down to the surface of the custard will provide the barest of, but just enough embellishment.
 
According to several weathered cookbooks on my buckling bookshelf, lovers of custard pie might consider a ‘slip custard’ approach. This method seems somewhat bold to me, requiring a steady hand and considerable pluck. A pre baked pie shell waits expectantly for a filling baked in a pie plate of the same size. When the custard has sufficiently cooled, it is ‘slipped’ into the beckoning crust. This technique does not call to me as I am feeling neither bold nor plucky.
 
No matter how long you’ve been watching and waiting for the grief train to come rolling down the tracks, when it finally arrives, you find yourself wondering if you’ve boarded the wrong train. Maybe you misread the schedule and your train, the peace train, is really down one flight of stairs, up another, on the opposite platform. The grief train is local, making every stop, refusing you a transfer at the next station. It is the one train I wish I had missed.
 
A few summers back, I was unable to attend a gathering at my brother’s home in honor of my parents’ 65th wedding anniversary. My father put together a collection of some of his favorite shirts, still in pristine condition. The buttons on the button-down collars were perfectly intact, the 100% cotton fabrics still bright. All of the children, grandchildren and even the great grandchildren donned one of the shirts, gathering together for a photo on an overstuffed sofa.  I was otherwise occupied in upstate New York, writing about and thinking about food. When I returned on Labor Day, I made sure to snag one of my father’s shirts. In the last few years, several of those long sleeved plaid shirts have found their way into my closet. I like to wear them to work; the sleeves are long enough to roll back, out of the way of fruit and flour, but offering protection between the gap in the oven mitt and a bare arm. They also feel like a hug.
 
Every time I don one of my father’s shirts, I think about that photograph. As a family we have been luckier than most, dodging grief for decades. My brother-in-law recently suggested that losing someone dear to you is a little bit like an earthquake. What I have come to learn is that the earthquake takes up residence in your heart. I’m new to the grief game but I believe I can get through this. My father prepared me well.
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3 Comments
Martha S.
9/12/2017 11:53:04 pm

Like your Dad's shirts, your pieces feel like a warm hug. Thanks for sharing your wisdom about baking, life and love

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No More Mr Nice pie link
9/16/2017 07:15:20 am

Martha,

Thanks for reading- and thank you for your kind words. Most appreciated, especially now.

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Majed Ali link
11/12/2018 12:12:34 pm

You remind me of my mom when she gathered us a month after my dad passed away.
And she brought all my dad,s belongings, and asked us.
“ please choose whatever you like from your dads belongings..but I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to give the rest of it to charity, I want his soul to Rest In Peace by giving some of it to the needy.
And this is a common thing in our culture.
we chose wisely.
I took his leather jacket, golden watch and his pen.
What it hurts the most is watching my mom all by herself, spending her day without someone to talk to.
The man who showed her the world, draw smile on her face.
Filled her life with laugh & joy is not there anymore.
Watching my mom withering day by day is killing me slowly.
Trying to keep her busy with new intrests.
Taking her to her favorite persian carpet bazaar, even if we don’t need a new carpet I offered to buy her a new one to make her happy.
Losing my dad is really painful but watching my mom going through this is is heartbreaking.

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    Professional Pie-isms & Seasonal Sarcasm

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