seventeen tiny pies

We had a party last weekend, a get-together with most of the people we know in Detroit (and some I had never met before). I'd been hard-charging about having people over, just to do something easy and fun, just to not only have a going-away party, for a while. I conceived food options and dreamed up the idea that, rather than make a big pie, which would invariably be too squishy, impossible to cut, and require endless dishes, that I would make tiny pies in great enough quantities, that could be eaten "out of hand", as they say, and maybe even eaten right from the tiny pie pan with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. No extra dishes, messy pie joy.

I imagined these pies as blueberry, because I really do love blueberry pie. And peach pie, too, but that's mostly memories of Flamm's. But blueberries are in season in Michigan - like cherries, they're a very Michigan product - so that would be me doing the farmers at Eastern Market a solid by buying up a couple extra pints as the summer gets longer. I decided, too, that summery = deviled eggs and that burgers were a lot more complicated than flank steak. I planned ahead and grocery-shopped early. And being a nervous baker, I started the pies two days early, to make sure they didn't suck before I handed them out.

I have long said that I am a crap baker -- I don't like that I can't fix anything after the mixing is done. This pesky business of what order in which one must mix things together, these liquids and solids, baking soda versus baking powder. Crazy people and their experimental baking. My mom has been quick to disabuse me of the sanctity of homemade piecrust, though, and for that, I thank her.* And so do the seventeen -- really eighteen -- tiny pies.

We start with 5 cups of blueberries, and a mix of the Joy of Cooking and Bittman, for spicing and directions. Actually, no, we start with the search for tiny pies tins. They aren't common, and I still don't know where my local must-have-that-kitchen-tool store is. But my favorite market does have ready-made graham cracker crusts in tiny tins, so, boom, we buy 12. Pop out the graham cracker -- with a moment's regret about the waste -- and get to work trimming pie crusts and making the strips for lattices. This is feverish work, not measuring the pieces of the maybe-will-be-lattices, keeping the dough in the fridge, hoping the berries are enough.

But then mix the berries with corn starch, cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg, lemon juice and zest, and some sugar. Joy gives you a 15-minute time limit, after which point your filling gets too watery, to get the job done. Joy was not making a dozen tiny pies! Call it a half-hour, to be fair, and a lot of pie-spinning and crimping. Then realize that your tiny tins don't balance on your oven rack, earn a little burn tattoo on your arm, and say a prayer to the souls of your grandmothers that these pies will not suck. Maybe even promise not to cut corners next time.**

And so it happened that Thursday lunchtime, for three hours, I took a break from sleeping sickness in Usumbura, Burundi, to make little pies. It was a weird labor of friend-love, wanting to throw a good party, wanting everyone to have something fun to eat. But also, Kolz loves pies. So when I tested one that afternoon...again, to make sure it didn't taste awful or off...I saved half. When I stopped by the office later that day, I had half a pie wrapped up in foil. I asked him try it in the car. I think it's fair to describe the ensuing sound and expression as kidlike and blissful. "Hmmm," he murmured, a pause, "...i love pie." My lawyerman murmuring, as if to the pie itself, a job well done. I slept well that night.

Come Friday morning, I realized that I failed to account for the children invited to the party in my pie figures, and that it's not fair to deprive a 4-year-old, 18-month-old, and just-nearly-one-year-old of their own personal pies. So I pop half the pies out of the tins, balance it all, and bake a quick 6 more as fast as I can. This batch had brown sugar and much more orderly lattices (extra dough = less stress), and left me enough time to prep my squash blossoms, fill my eggs, and whip the apartment into shape with Kolz before 5 pm. I slept well that night, too.

I've decided that pies are a weird headtrip back to childhood for the men of the greater U.S. northeast (or maybe just where there were lots of blueberries growing up). Guys hit these pies like candy! Or Doritos! The party was great, the pies were a hit. The pies were also the point where I got to really enjoy the party, with the flank steak done and all perishables away, Kolz working to keep the house in order, us getting to chat, and everyone bringing ever more beer and goodies. I got to watch the 18-month-old demolish pies and reach for his mom with pie-grubby hands, everyone dodging and laughing. The joy of pies distracted me from the decimation of my tomatoes, intentional and accidental (TOMATO WATCH is a sad thing, maybe 6? and another 5 salvaged on the windowsill, ripening). Pies might just be my new party trick. I'm all for savory ones when it gets cold again.

If photos turn up of our friends, you'll see them, but for now: pies.




* scratch biscuits, though, she was patient with - I just want to be able to do this, to make something good with five ingredients, and we tried them three times (me biscuiting, her observing) from the old light blue Joy of Cooking, while I was home last month. I wanted part whole wheat ones, too -- by round three, we'd done it.

** I've decided that DIY is kind of the enemy of getting the dissertation finished, within reason. When I have a book in hand, THEN I'll make pie crusts from scratch.