Fruit Pie

When I think of the summers of my childhood, I think of waking up early and swimming in our pool by myself, while my mom sat on the patio doing a crossword and drinking coffee. I think of my mom's chicken salad, which I hated as a kid (it had grapes in it! Come on!) but which I have now spent the better part of a decade trying to re-create. I think of coconut ice cream from a place called The Candy Kitchen on the beach, and I think of bringing home HEAPS of books from the Seminole Public Library, laying on the floor of my bedroom and reading through them one after another-- always excited when I found a new mystery novel. Summers in Florida were pretty amazing—and after we moved to North Carolina, they stayed pretty epic with long beach trips, camp, and visits to Kentucky.

When my mom talks about her childhood in the same town where I grew up, it was a completely different, though equally awesome, story: she would leave her house in the morning on her bike, and spend the day riding around doing whatever she wanted with her friends. As a little kid, her limits were the distance that Eleanor could shout (not as strict as it sounds-- Eleanor had quite a set of lungs), but after Eleanor had surgery on her throat and couldn't shout for my mom and her brother anymore, she took to ringing a cowbell when she needed my mom and her brother to come home. I have a vivid image of Eleanor in my head, standing on the microscopic stoop of their house in a polyester dress, one hand cocked on her hip, a lit cigarette in her mouth, ringing a cowbell with a bored look on her face, completely un-embarrassed at the racket she was making and completely unconcerned with what the neighbours would think. (Where, though, do you think she found a cowbell on the Gulf Coast of Florida?). When my mom got a little older, her limits were farther and farther until by the time she started high school I'm pretty sure she had ridden the entirety of Pinellas County on her bicycle. She and her friends would head to the beach, where they'd slather themselves in baby oil and lay in the sun for hours (these were the days before skin cancer worries, and my mom's olive skin tans like a charm). Anyway, there's not a lot that my childhood summers share in common with my mom's (other than ice cream at The Candy Kitchen), but one thing I think everyone's summers share is the need for summertime desserts. Fruit pies in the summer are just the perfect complement to long days that never seem to want to end, and somehow they're made even better if you happen to have picked the fruit yourself.

Whatever your summers were like as a child, I think there's probably a good chance they were more awesome than your summers as an adult, when work continues, you can't patronise the beach on a daily basis, and real-life doesn't allow you to wile away 5 hours at a time reading books. But you know what doesn't have to change? Your favourite summertime dessert.

The recipe for this pie just calls for '5 ½ cups mix fruit,' so I had a lot of leeway-- but it's summer, so obviously I went with peaches (my all-time favourite fruit) and apricots. Also, the recipe is written on receipt tape, like the kind that used to come out of calculators, and that cracks me up. As a side note, when I told Judson I was making a peach pie, he thought I had invented it myself as he had never, in his own words, 'heard of peach pie, or even knew you could make it.' Sometimes I hate to correct him.

You could definitely make this pie filling with anything that's in season right now, though if you're using a drier fruit like rhubarb or apples, you might want to lower the amount of flour by about 1/3 to accommodate. Bonus points if you combine fruits for new and unique flavours (my backup plan if the peaches weren't ripe was going to be blackberry/cherry/raspberry). I actually wanted to make this an apricot pie, but I couldn't find enough apricots (but if you can, do it-- I made a mini apricot pie with the perfect ones that are in season over here right now, and it was amaaaaazing).

The crust, however, is a giant pain. I have this theory that with most foods, you should try new ones all the time: just because you have a chocolate cake recipe that you like doesn't mean you won't find another that's just as good! But when it comes to pie crusts, all bets are off. If you have one that you like, you should just use it all the time because pie crusts are nothing but a hassle. And this one, although deliciously buttery and perfectly textured, is no exception. As Judson pointed out, it may be because the main ingredient is supposed to be shortening and I had to use Stork because of the infernal lack of Crisco in this country, or it may just be because this recipe is a nightmare, but the crust is insanely sticky and wet, which means it's not super easy to handle. You're not going to get a beautiful lattice crust with this dough, but the buttery layers go perfectly with the filling and I'd still recommend it.

The verdict:

5 spoons out of five. This pie was so good, we all went back for seconds. It's miraculous. Plus, the filling is just insanely easy-- especially if you use berries, which don't even have to be sliced. Make this pie and enjoy a warm slice on a sunny evening-- if you're stateside, you can have it with a scoop of ice cream. If you're over here, pour some cream over it and you're in for a true treat.

The recipe:

Peach & Apricot Pie

The directions:

crust:

Crack egg into a 1-cup measuring cup.
Fill the cup the rest of the way with ice-cold water.
Combine all ingredients, mixing well.
Form into a loose ball and chill while you make the filling.

THe ingredients:

the crust:

4 ½ c flour, sifted
2 c shortening/Stork
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1 egg
Water
1 tbs vinegar

Filling:

Preheat oven to 176C/350F.
Mix all ingredients together and set aside.
Divide crust in half, roll out one half and place in pie dish.
If dough is particularly sticky, weigh it down with pie weights or dry beans and parbake for 5-10 minutes until pale but dry to the touch.
Fill pie crust with fruit mixture, roll out other half of dough and lay gently over the pie dish,
Crimp edges tightly and cut vents in the top crust.
Cook 15-20 minutes until crust is golden-brown.

The filling:

5 ½ c fruit, cut into bite-size pieces
1/3 c flour (less if using non-juicy fruits)
1 c sugar
1 tsp cinnamon

Butterscotch Coffee Rounds

First of all: I AM ABOUT TO SHARE WITH YOU A RECIPE FOR BREAKFAST FOOD SOAKED IN BUTTER.

Ok, now that we're clear on that, here's the back story. When my parents were first married, long before I was born, they lived in South Georgia while my dad finished his undergrad degree. For awhile, they lived with my great-great-Aunt Gladys, in a wee farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was their time living near her that taught my mom to like tomatoes (warm and fresh from the vine), asparagus, and probably a lot of other Georgia produce.

By the time I was born, Aunt Gladys was quite old (she was, remember, my grandmother's aunt), but we would go up to Georgia to visit her every year or so. Whenever we went, she would set me loose in her yard with a pecan picker-- basically a tiny cage on a stick that you could use to pick up the pecans that fell from the trees without bending over. Her home was shrouded with pecan trees that I remember being taller than an office building, and in the fall the ground underneath them would be thick with nuts. I'd gather shoeboxes full of pecans-- paint buckets full!-- and we'd eat them for snacks all year round, give them as Christmas gifts, and bake all kinds of delicious things with them. (One time, in a story I'm not sure we ever told her, my brother and I were so hungry for pecans while my mom was at the store that we couldn't wait for her to come home and tell us where the nut cracker was, so we spent the afternoon on the kitchen linoleum, shattering pecans with my brother's baseball and gathering up the shell remnants to avoid getting caught.)

Ever since then, in the many years I lived in Georgia, I could never drive past a rural general store promising 'papershell' pecans. I've been duped into buying my fair share of (probably imported) mediocre pecans at exorbitant prices, but I've never tasted pecans as good as the ones that grew on Aunt Gladys' trees.

Gladys probably never knew Eleanor well (linked, as they were, only through Gladys' great-nephew and Eleanor's daughter), but I think that based on the number of recipes featuring incredibly Southern ingredients I've found in the box, it's a safe bet that they probably had a fair amount of overlap in their cooking repertoires-- at least when it comes to desserts.

Now, as I mentioned, these breakfast rolls are soaked in butter, studded with pecans, and coated in a sticky brown sugar glaze. Not sold yet? How about this: it's a one-bowl recipe and you don't even have to use a mixer. You can even make these on a weeknight (I did) and still be in bed by the time the sun sets at 11:30pm.

If you have Georgia pecans, they'll be even better, but don't let it stop you if not: these are decadent and heavenly, and so worth making as a reward for your coworkers for making it through another week of madness. There's nothing particularly 'butterscotch' about them, but they pair great with coffee (or tea!) and I can personally vouch that they are just as good the second day as they were the first.

The verdict:

5 spoons out of five. Seriously, make these. They taste as good as cinnamon rolls but they're a fraction of the work. These are definitely a luxury breakfast-- not the kind of thing you eat every day, but that makes them even more special when you do make them. Make these and everyone in your house will be grateful.

The recipe:

Pecan Breakfast Rolls

the directions:

Dissolve yeast in hot water.
Add 1 1/3 c flour, sugar, salt, soda, sour cream, and egg.
Mix thoroughly until fairly smooth, but do not overmix.
Stir in remaining flour, mixing until smooth and scraping sides of bowl frequently.
Melt 1/8 c of butter in each of two 8- or 9-inch round cake pans.
Sprinkle brown sugar and pecans evenly over melted butter in each cake pan.
Drop batter in tablespoons evenly over mixture in pans.
Let rise in a warm place for 50 minutes (batter will not rise much).
Preheat oven to 176C/350F.
Bake 25-30 minutes until golden brown.
Immediately invert pans onto serving plates then let pans remain a minute so butter drizzles over coffee cakes.
Serve warm, if possible.

Yields 12 rolls.

the ingredients:

1 pkg yeast
¼ c tap water, very hot
2 1/3 c flour, divided
1/3 c sugar
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp baking soda
1 c sour cream
1 egg
¼ c butter, divided
¼ c brown sugar, packed & divided
¼ c pecan halves, divided

Jiffy Tuna Supper

In Scotland, you live a little bit like bears, all year round. In the winter, you hibernate (because it gets dark at 3pm), and in the summer, you stay up and bask in the sunshine all day (because it stays light until 11pm and gets light again by 3:30am). And so every winter, we (along with everyone else in this country) find ourselves eating dinner at 5:45pm, the minute we get home from work, because our bodies assume it must be at least 9pm, based on how long it's been dark. And in the summer, we routinely find ourselves awake (and convinced we've slept til noon) at 5am, and not eating dinner until we notice our stomachs growling and realise, with surprise, that it is, in fact, 10:45pm.

This is exactly what happened to us last week when I made this meal.

It was a normal Thursday night, we were hanging out doing Thursday night stuff, when suddenly I realised that it was 10pm and, though still light, far beyond a reasonable dinner hour. So I did what any self-respecting American living in Britain would do and got a box of 'Macaroni Cheese' out of the pantry. Over here, there is (bewilderingly) no 'and' in the title-- and while I am the first to admit when Scottish phrases surpass American ones in cuteness (wee), awesomeness (higgledy-piggledy), or weirdness (peely-wally), I think that in the case of macaroni, the 'and' is merited. Without it, I get nervous that it's the noodles that are cheese-flavoured, not the sauce, and that would just be terrible.

Also, Kraft and Velveeta aren't available in Scotland (which is why, when I spent a month in Miami in January, I ate macaroni and cheese approximately three times a week)-- there's just one terrible generic brand that comes with powder cheese that's not very cheesy so if you make it yourself you have to add real cheese in order to make it taste anything besides just yellow. The package, however, is tartan, so at least there's that. But the fact remains: it's a little embarrassing how I keep thinking that the weirdest-sounding recipes in the box will be absolutely disgusting, and then, inevitably, Judson and I end up happily munching away on our dinner... and this latest one is no exception. Neither of us are picky (we're both quite the opposite), and while we've definitely found recipes we wouldn't make again (looking at you, chicken-flavoured-chicken), there haven't really been any that we couldn't at least muddle our way through. (Judson's good humour in this regard is probably a giant reason that this blog still exists, as he's been stuck eating an awful lot of dishes we never would have otherwise tried since I started this project.) I thought for sure this recipe would change our near-perfect track record, though-- its core ingredient, after all, being a box of macaroni and cheese-- but I'll be damned if this wasn't a perfectly fine late-night meal on a cool summer night when we could hear a storm blowing in as we cooked.

Your eggs should be cooked more than these ones, it just turns out I'm SO good at eggs I can't make a dry one even when I'm trying.

Eleanor, who cut corners on dinners but never desserts, would be proud, I think, by our ability to make do with only the barest of pantry essentials on this recipe-- you're almost sure to have everything needed for this recipe already in your pantry, and whatever you're missing is, of course, completely omittable (except for the mac n' cheese, which is kind of the backbone of this recipe-- for better or worse). This is the kind of meal I imagine Eleanor making for her kids after a long day of work at the middle school where she made her career, and while it may not be healthy, it's got a vegetable, a protein, and a starch in it and sometimes, that kind of stodge is all you can ask for.

The verdict:

3 spoons out of five. I'd be embarrassed to give it a higher rating, but I'd also be lying if I said I wasn't excited to eat the leftovers on the night after we made this. It's not a glamorous recipe, and it's definitely not one to make on a date, but I'm almost thirty now and so I worry very little about impressing anyone anymore, and, for an almost-thirty-year-old with a cooking blog who still sometimes forgets to eat dinner, this meal will do the job.

The recipe:

Cheesy Tuna Macaroni

the directions:

Prepare macaroni and cheese as directed.
While water is boiling, saute green pepper in olive oil until cooked but still crisp.
Add green pepper and tuna to prepared macaroni and cheese, mixing well over low heat.
Serve into bowls and top with sliced egg.

Makes 4 servings, perfect for a petite dinner with a wee salad on the side.

the ingredients:

1 box macaroni and cheese
1 green pepper, chopped
1 tablespoon olive oil*
2 cans tuna
2 eggs, hard-boiled and sliced
 

*The original recipe called for margarine. I changed it. You're welcome.