A time for pie

Thirteen years ago this month, I made my first pie. It’s hard to believe I was doing anything worth mentioning thirteen years ago. I guess that means I’m getting older.

When Thanksgiving rolled around that year, I got it in my head that I wanted to make blueberry pie from scratch. (Never mind that blueberries are way out of season in November. There’s a reason why pumpkin and apple pies dominate the holiday.)

Theresa, my pie mentor, may have mentioned this to me early on. In any case, I didn’t listen (I was 13, after all.) I wanted to make blueberry pie. Theresa was a close friend of my then-step-mother and our families got together for Thanksgiving that year. She had more talent and enthusiasm for baking than any other woman I knew, and I was lucky to have her guidance.

The following year my family had shrunk due to divorce, and we celebrated with my Dad’s cousins who were in from California. I made blueberry pie again that year, and everyone was dutifully impressed that I’d made the whole thing from scratch.

I made blueberry pie a few times after that, but it never really became a skill. The truth is, I didn’t really like the pies I made. The crust was spot on, but the filling was soupy and bland.

But now I possess a new level of confidence and curiosity (in the kitchen, and in life.) There are a hundred thousand recipes for blueberry pie out there … maybe it’s time I tried a new one.

The inspiration for this post came from someone else’s obsession with fruit-filled pastry, a blog called Pie-Scream. I found this post in particular rather touching. I hope you’ll enjoy it, too.