Things are looking up

Now doesn't this just make you want to grin out loud?  It did me.  Thank you.  I love it, love it, love it.

I decided to celebrate the Fourth with a pie.  But not just any pie.  No.  No run of the mill over here.  I decided to go for it.  To embark on the journey.  To open the book and dive in.  Ladies and gentlemen, may I present you with... Blueberry-Nectarine Pie (aka, a Julia Child's pie):

I know, I know- the crust looks a bit shoddy.  But really?  Really, really?  It tasted divine.  DIVINE.  I've included my own notes in the recipe- you can find them in italics.

The filling:

• 3 cups fresh blueberries (about 1.5 pints)
• 2 cups sliced nectarines (about 3 large nectarines)
• 3/4 cup sugar
• 1 1/2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
• large pinch of grated lemon zest
• 2 teaspoons (approximately) fresh lemon juice (I ended up using one lemon)

Although this was not noted in the instructions, I think it's worthy to share that you need to be sure to peel the nectarines prior to slicing them.  I think I stared at four different pictures of this pie, trying to figure out if the damn skins needed to come off prior to baking.  I know- might seem obvious to some, but to me, if it's not written down, well.

Put half of the fruit (which, by the way, my beloved managed to get 1 pint of blueberries instead of 1.5... it still worked out fine in the end) in a medium saucepan, keeping the remaining fruit close at hand.  Add the sugar, flour, and lemon zest and stir to mix.  Bring the mixture to a soft boil over medium heat, stirring constantly.  The fruits will release their juices and the liquid will thicken. (At this point I was all, what?  Bring the mixture to a soft boil?  But there's no liquid to be found!  No liquid!  How can I boil no liquid!  But then, magic.  Just like she mentioned, the fruits released their juices.  And the smell from that pot?  Incredible.  I probably stirred for about 10 minutes, not sure when I should stop.  It seemed to be "thick enough" at that point, but what do I know?)  Turn the mixture into a  bowl and stir in the uncooked fruit.  Taste a spoonful (or three!), paying particular attention to the saucy liquid, and add lemon juice as needed.  Cool the filling to room temperature.

The crust:

• 1/2 recipe Flaky Pie Dough, chilled (I'll share later- but please know that this recipe?  IT'S AWESOME!)
• 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, cut into bits
• 1 large egg beaten with 1 tablespoon cold water, for egg wash
• crystal or turbinado sugar, for sprinkling (I ended up using granulated sugar- this did not have the same effect!  BOO! on granulated sugar!)

Cut the dough in half and roll one half out on a lightly floured work surface into a circle about 11 inches across.  Fit the crust into a 9-inch cake pan with 1-inch-high sides (Hmmm.  I missed this.  I ended up using a crappy Pyrex pie pan.  Also?  I didn't roll my dough out enough.  ALWAYS my problem.  It shows.).  Allow the excess dough to hang over the sides for the moment.

Roll the remaining piece of dough into a circle about 10 inches across.  Place the pie pan in the center of the dough and, using the pan as a template, cut the bottom round of dough so that it is about 1/2 inch larger all around the pan.

Spoon the cooled filling into the pie shell and dot the top with butter (DAMN!  I forgot to dot with butter!  I bet that would have made this even more amazing!).

Trim the overhanging dough to about 1/2 inch.  Left the rolled-out circle of dough onto the pie, aligning the edges of the top crust with the bottom crust (again, I didn't roll this batch of dough out enough).  Fold both layers of overhanging dough under to create a thick edge around the rim of the pan.  Crimp the edges by pushing the thumb of one hand against the thumb and index finger of your other hand, creating scallops every 1 or 2 inches around the rim (ummm, yeah.  I didn't do this part so well either).  Press the tines of a fork against the flat scallops (what?!  Where are the flat scallops?!) to decorate.  Paint the crust with the egg wash and sprinkle with a little crystal or turbinado sugar (again- don't use granulated sugar!).

Using the point of a thin knife, cut 4 to 6 slits in the crust and chill for about 20 minutes (CHILL FOR ABOUT 20 MINUTES?  I totally missed that.  How in the hell did this pie turn out at all?!).

Position a rack in the center of the oven and preheat the oven to 375 degrees. 

Place the pie on a parchment-lined jelly-roll pan and bake for 40 to 50 minutes, until the crust is golden and the fruit bubbling.  Let cool for at least 30 minutes before you cut it so that the crusts, top and bottom, have a chance to set.

Yep.  Now that I've typed it out, I can see that I missed a lot of details.  The good news?  It was the first pie to disappear from the pie table at the party, so hell ya.  Looks like things are finally looking up in my baking world....

Through the example of others....

Even though I didn't want to post this recipe because you might not like it, plus you might only want to read recipes that are accompanied with pictures, I felt drawn due to a recent post in which the author made a very valid point (although it was a quiet point, made via example)... you can't share your own hip, hip, hoorays about something baked or made or whatever without including directions. 

So. 

Here's the picture from a while ago:

And here's the recipe, taken from A Best Recipe Classic:  Baking Illustrated, put together by the editors of Cook's Illustrated Magazine.  Keep in mind that I had to alter for elevation (mind you, this typed out version has not been altered, but just in case yours come out tasting like shit... well, perhaps you need to find a kitchen at 7, 200 feet):

Blueberry Muffins

• 2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
• 1 tablespoon baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 large egg
• 1 cup sugar
• 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly
• 1 1/4 cups sour cream
• 1 1/2 cups fresh blueberries

Heat oven to 350 degrees.  Grease a standard 12-cup muffin tin and set aside (I recently tried out the secret of putting the muffin tin on the opened door of the dishwasher- you can spray all you want and not have a mess to clean up later!  Woo-hoo!).

Whisk the flour, baking powder, and salt in a medium bowl until combined.  Whisk the egg in a second medium bowl until well-combined and light-colored, about 20 seconds.  Add the sugar and whisk vigorously until thick and homogenous, about 30 seconds; add the melted butter in 2 or 3 additions, whisking to combine after each addition.  Add the sour cream in 2 additions, whisking just to combine.

Add the berries to the dry ingredients and gently toss just to combine.  Add the sour cream mixture and fold with a rubber spatula until the batter comes together and the berries are evenly distributed, about 25 to 30 seconds.  (Small spots of flour may remain and the batter will be thick.  Now, in the voice of Faye Dunaway as she channeled Joan Crawford during the wire hanger scene, scream this at yourself lest you forget:  "Do not overmix!  Do not overmix!  Do not overmix!")

Using a large spoon sprayed with nonstick cooking spray to prevent sticking, divide the batter among the greased muffin cups.  Bake until the muffins are light golden brown and a toothpick comes out clean, 25 to 30 minutes, rotating the pan from front to back halfway through the baking time.  Invert the muffins onto a wire rack, stand the muffins upright, and cool 5 minutes.  Serve as is (or with a couple of dollops of butter smeared on top).

Will it really be that bad?

I don't know how accurate this is, but closely following Leone's arrival within our abode, I began to panic about getting him on a schedule.  A feeding schedule, a diaper schedule, a sleeping schedule.  For one reason or another, it seemed to be one of the most important things ever.  A schedule.

Looking back, I'm fairly confident that one of the primary reasons for said schedules was that I was scared out of my mind and thought the only way I could put those fears to rest would be if I had something I could check off.  And a schedule?  Shoot.  I could handle that.  I knew how to be rigid and focused and determined and stubborn.  Also?  I knew how to check things off.

So.  There we were.  Schedules in hand, baby boy who seemed determined to do things his way or the highway.  Threw me through a loop.  A huge, scribble-scrabble loopty-loop.  I remember driving for hours, HOURS, to get him to nap at exactly 1 o'clock in the afternoon.  And thinking that the timer went off fifteen minutes ago for his bottle and why isn't he hungry?  Is he sick?  Is something wrong?  Does the formula taste like shit?  This is exactly why I should pay the million dollars to have breast milk delivered from Denver.  If it was breast milk, he would be eating right now.  I am failing at this!!  My baby is going to hate me, hate us, hate his life!!  Wait.  Now you're hungry?  Oh.  

But no.  It wasn't over at that point.  Because then?  Then I would have to figure out if the schedule should change by twenty minutes, or if I should stick with the original plan.  And then?  Should I wake him up if he sleeps over an hour?  And if he doesn't fall asleep until 1:30, does it make sense for us to keep him awake for an extra 30 minutes before nighttime?  What if he doesn't nap?  Should he go to bed early or will that jack everything up? 

Shit.  I was tired.  Tired with a capital T. Exhausted by my own mind.

Today I rocked my boy to sleep.  We rocked and rocked and rocked.  He cuddled in, stuffed monsters and frogs and flannel blankets crammed into the places our bodies weren't.  At first I worried a bit- will this make it hard for him once school starts up again?  What will it be like when I start teaching again and I'm not there to rock him to sleep?  Will he be extra sad?  Will he not go to sleep?  Am I starting one of those American viewed "bad habits"?  What if I die?  What if I die tonight and I've made him used to rocking to sleep in my arms and then he'll never nap again and he'll be extra, extra sad- and OH GOD- what if I die?!  What will happen if I die?!

Phew.  Ridiculous.

What is it about me that makes me want to prepare for every step in the future, be it immediate or further on?  I know that when it comes to potential grief (through departure from visitors or someone's looming death), I like to begin the sadness way ahead of time.  You know, so it won't be so bad once the real occasion is staring me in the face.

So.  Annoying.

And also?  It doesn't really help out that much.  I'm still sad, I'm still angry, I'm still confused, I'm still whatever the situation calls for, regardless of when I began the process.

So my boy wants to cuddle.  He actually wants to cuddle.  With me.  These are moments- precious, beautiful moments.  And to throw them aside because I'm afraid of what might come?  Ridiculous.  Absolutely stupid.

Like I said, we're doing just fine.  Only thing is, I have to get over these humps within my own head.  And my boy?  He's pretty patient with me.  Patient and funny and demanding and pushy and wonderful and delightful and smart and good and handsome.  And also?  An amazing little cuddle bug when he feels like it.

His.

Today at the library Leone grabbed my shirt and declared in his super loud voice to anyone who might be listening:  "MY MOMMY!"

This attachment stuff?  We're making some real nice progress.  Real, real nice progress.

Not that I have any room

It would seem as though I'm not a complete asshole baker.  Not that I have any room for bragging at this point in my baking career, but hold your hats on tight and firm... I made a second batch of the blueberry muffins, dropped them off with a baker down the street who just had a baby, and received word today that they were the best blueberry muffins she has ever had in her life.  Well.  Color me purple and put a bow around my heart.

I followed heed from a commenter a few days ago (couple weeks ago?) and ordered my newest, most favorite, I can hardly believe I was even going to attempt this "Summer of Baking!" without owning it, cookbook.  Oh, the joy I feel in my heart.

That Julia Child.  Sure is a kick in the seat of the pants.

Do you remember that whole bit a while ago regarding my dive into the world of anorexia when I was 12?  Active bulimia when I was 17?  Obviously I've had issues with food and body image for what seems like my entire life- the idea of baking and then eating something made with butter was enough to have me thinking about throwing myself in front of a train.  I can remember my beginning interest in baking- it was enough for me to put my nose right up to the ingredients and sniff away.  That shit actually filled me up.  Smelling something.  Who would have thought?

Anyway, that was all years ago.  I tried baking with my nose, I tried baking with low fat ingredients, I tried ignoring my desire to touch and smell and taste delicious foods.  Thing is, none of the crap worked out so well for me.  It's not like my life was so much better- in fact, it was a struggle.

Last week I was watching Julia Child help put together some muffins, scones, soda bread, and popovers with Marion Cunningham.  And here's the thing- I absolutely squealed in delight when I watched the two of them converse about the one ingredient that caused me more fear for most of my life than anything else- yellow, creamy butter.  Although it won't do it justice, let me give you a brief recap:  Marion was pouring muffin batter into some cups and ever so thoughtfully said, "The thing is, so many of these baked things that are so shy of fat really... well, they really just don't taste good!"  To which Julia said with an emphatic nod of the head, "No, no....  So you end up having to put more butter on them, so you'd be better off having the recipe right in the first place!"

Um, hell ya!  Thank you Marion!  Thank you Julia!  The things I've baked in the past have tasted like shit- and the reason was because I refused to use the fats!  Of course!  The fats!

So even though no one else in this whole entire world could care less about the conversation between Marion and Julia, I felt like I had an epiphany.  As I watched the two of them slather butter on top of their finished muffins, taking extreme delight in the flavors swishing around in their mouths, I thought to myself- no need to go to the extreme over here, but come on... take pleasure in your food.  Taste it.  Smell it.  Touch it.  Indulge.  Do it right the first time. 

It only looks like a piece of Heaven

Leone and I went on an adventure yesterday.

What you can't see in the above picture is the way I leapt about ten feet off the ground after I took it due to the sudden impasse of ants up my drawers.  I swear to you, the ground was actually moving.  MOVING!

What you can't see in this picture is the mosquito resting on Leone's forehead.  Nor can you see my immediate reaction of slapping the thing dead... right on my boy's head.  My freaked out responses to insects is something I need to get better at.  Much, much better at.

What you can't see in this picture is my constant glancing about, sure that a bear or a mountain lion was going to spring on us.  What you also can't see is the huge pointy rock laying right beside me just in case that bear or mountain lion were to make themselves known to the left of us, to the right of us, or directly behind us.

What you can't see in this picture is the huge spiny sticker embedded in Leone's thumb.  Nor can you see the ginormous tear quietly making it's way down his right cheek.

What you can see in this picture are my overall feelings associated with a spot I thought was only capable of providing great joy and pleasure.

Nature.  What a crock.

Around the same time as the river "incident"

So you remember this?  A few days later, apparently in the quest to scar our son up in as many ways as possible, we decided to escape the river and drive the car up high, high, high.  To a spot where the only amount of foreseeable water would be teeny creeks running down the mountainside.  And really, those tiny bundles of water wouldn't be much because we had plans on staying in the car.  Just scoping out a possible picnic spot for the weekend.  The entire point of the damn ride was to see if there was still snow, because if that were the case, well.  We would have to figure out someplace else to sit and gorge upon sharp and smoky cheeses, soft yet crunchy breads, crackers with oats all over them, fruit that makes you wipe your chin off immediately, so on and you get the whole idea over here.

We got to the spot, relieved that we could see no snow in front of us, behind us, or to the sides of us.  And now that it was closing in on dinner, we decided it best to head on down.  No touring around on our feet that day.  And... what?  What is that we see?  Perfect.  Two motorcycles.  We can follow them down the Pass, being sure to "ohh" and "ahh" because darnit if Leone isn't drawn to those things as though they were cousins to the roaring river.

We had just really started going when Leone, peering between the front seats for a better view, declared that both riders were wearing their helmets.  "Ohhh, yes, Leone.  Helmets!  So very important to...." And apparently right after that I started swearing (and although I don't recall doing that, I have every reason to believe my tesoro because, damnit.).  Right in front of us, one of the bikers lost control.  He swerved.  He flipped off his bike.  The bike flipped over him.  His body hit the concrete guards on the mountain side.  Dust.  Whirls of dust, brake lights flashing, a body being flung around like a broken puppet.  Things happening that happen when you're going around 50/55 mph down a mountainside.

Leone went silent.  No words.  Nothing.

Tesoro pulled up close, I frantically shouted to the other cyclist that we were going to get help because cell phones didn't work up here, and off we drove until a phone was located and help was called.  By the time we made it back up the Pass, another car had stopped and folks were gently huddled around him.  It took, what, 20 minutes for an ambulance to get there?  Maybe?  Maybe a little less?  Maybe a little more?  And then another 30 minutes before the police officer arrived to grill his friend and my husband and I?  All said and done, maybe right around an hour and a half?  Perhaps two?

All the while, there sat our son in his car seat.  The little boy who doesn't know how to remain still, how to remain quiet, for more than 30 seconds.  But this time?  This time he was quiet.  And when he did speak, he asked what happened.  What happened?  What happened?

The motorcycle fell down baby.  It crashed.  The man is hurt (we had pulled up right alongside him, for the love of God.  Leone's window was open as we watched the man roll around on the Earth in agony, not sure if he was going to live or die).  Sometimes things like this happen.

What happened?  What happened?  What happened?

It's been something like two weeks since we witnessed the accident.  And our boy, our Leone, still asks about it.  Says at random times- a motorcycle crashed.  Sometimes things like this happen.  A motorcycle crashed.

Oh, Leone.  If only we could stop pain and agony and hurt and fear.  If only we could do that for you.  For him.  If only.