Control of the Pies

Los Angeles, California

It's beginning to look a lot like . . . Thanksgiving. Seriously, it is plain damn hard to transition from Kona (weather, clothing & all things tropical) to a cold snap with rain in SoCal. But transition we must, as the holidays are just around the corner.

Recent changes have left us at loose ends for the holidays. Since we moved my mother into her retirement community, which is nearby, the traditions we used to hold have unraveled. We have always celebrated Easter, and Christmas Day at our home. Christmas Eve was at my parents' home until the last five years or so, when it began to be daunting for my mom to manage. So, we began hosting it at our home. We used to go to my sister's, about forty-five minutes south of us, for Thanksgiving.  But my mom's situation necessitates a celebration nearer to her home. And that means our house. This year, however, we are celebrating a day early.

Billy's mom, Shirls, will be coming for a visit. Shirls unwittingly made the mistake of moving to Arizona a few years back, and subsequently realizing it was a mistake. She wants to move back, and we fervently hope she will, but in the meantime, she is flying in to spend Thanksgiving week here in the southland. She is spending Thanksgiving day elsewhere, but is available on Wednesday, so she will be joining us along with my mom, for a Pre-Thanksgiving Dinner on Wednesday night.

I don't mind having PTD (see above) at our home, except that we are now such a small group at the table. My family has dwindled, and Billy's is scattered. I would so love to spend the holiday with friends and fristers, but everyone's plans are in place -- have been in place for decades. So this year, we are pleased to make our merriment at our home, with the moms.

And now, a word about the food. Truth be told, for me there is a secondary gain about hosting Thanksgiving (or PTD, in this case), and that is about being in control of the pies. For many years, as Thanksgiving approached and friends and acquaintances began to talk about their plans, I would immediately ask them what kind of pies they were going to have. Pies are important at Thanksgiving. They loom large in the legend.

In the past, at my sister’s home, we were served pumpkin pie. She also baked little individual mince tarts, which she served with a Grand Marnier sabayon. My sister's pumpkin pie is delicious -- though I’m not much of a pumpkin-custard kind of person. I usually had a small piece, plus a half of a mince tart. And, don't get me wrong, that was lovely. But I fantasized about being in control of the pies. I think that is what hosting Thanksgiving is all about, and is perhaps the only reason anyone ever even considers hosting it. It's about being in control of the pies. In fact, my belief is that this is what Thanksgiving is all about, en toto: pies, and who gets to choose the variety that shows up at your table (and if it's your table, you should be the chooser, not to belabor this point, but really . . .).

One of the early times when I prepared Thanksgiving dinner, way back in my early twenties, I made Shoo-fly Pie. Well, forgive me, I was just out of college and you know what a pretentious culinary period that is in one's life. So don't expect that recipe. These days, if I were preparing a feast for many which entitled me to this dominion over dessert, I would decree: Pecan pie, and French Apple (the pie with the crumb topping). Oh yes! But frankly, while Billy is on board with the French Apple, he just doesn't get the pecan pie thing. He finds it cloyingly sweet. I do too. But in a good way.
 
Still, even with complete and unchallenged control, a little restraint is in order. With the small group that is gathering, I will bake only one pie. And, let's face it, people want pumpkin. I don't know why they do, but they do. So here is my compromise:
 
Pumpkin-Pecan Pie


For Pie Shell
Pastry Dough for nine-inch single crust pie


For Pumpkin Filling
3/4 cup canned pumpkin
2      tablespoons packed brown sugar
1      large egg, lightly beaten
2      tablespoons sour cream
1/8  teaspoon cinnamon
1/8  teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg


For Pecan Layer
3/4 cup light corn syrup
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
3      large eggs, lightly beaten
3      tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2      teaspoons vanilla
1/4  teaspoon finely grated fresh lemon zest
1/2  tablespoon (1 1/2 teaspoons) fresh lemon juice
1/4  teaspoon salt
1 1/3 cup pecans (5 1/2 oz), chopped, if desired


Make pie shell:
Roll out dough on a lightly floured surface with a lightly-floured rolling pin into a 13-inch round (1/8 inch thick), then fit into a 9-inch glass or metal pie plate. Trim edge, leaving a 1/2-inch overhang, then fold overhang under and crimp edge decoratively. Prick bottom and side of shell all over with a fork, then chill shell 30 minutes.


While shell chills, put oven rack in middle position and preheat oven to 375 F.


Line shell with foil and fill with pie weights (dried beans, rice, or what have you), then bake until pastry is set and pale golden on rim, about fifteen minutes. Carefully remove foil and weights and bake shell until pale golden all over, about five minutes more. Cool on a rack.


Make pumpkin filling:
Whisk together pumpkin, brown sugar, egg, sour cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a pinch of salt in a bowl until smooth.


Make pecan layer:
Stir together corn syrup, brown sugar, eggs, butter, vanilla, zest, lemon juice, and salt in a bowl, then stir in pecans.


Assemble and bake pie:
Spread pumpkin mixture evenly in shell, then carefully spoon pecan mixture over it. Bake pie until crust is golden and filling is puffed, about thirty minutes. (Center will still be slightly wobbly; filling will set as it cools.) Cool completely on rack. Serve at room temperature.


Cooks' note:
Pie can be baked four hours ahead and kept, uncovered, at cool room temperature. If you bake it a day ahead, loosely cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate. Reheat in a preheated 350F oven until crust is crisp, about fifteen minutes.


Makes eight to ten servings

Alright, I have not provided you with a pastry dough recipe. I figure if you are baking pies for the holiday, you probably have your own recipe. If not, the cookbook woods are full of them, or you can search Epicurious here. My pastry dough combines butter with a bit of shortening and utilizes ice water. But that's not integral. Pastry doughs are treasured discoveries or else they've been passed down through the generations within families. I'm not even going to admonish you against using prepared pie shells which are readily available (just spotted them at Trader Joe's), though that's not the route I go, even though I'm not a great pie baker. I consider myself a much better cook than baker. But I can step up when it is required. I can even do those leaves for decoration. Surprised you, didn't I?


And one last thing. Remember the post about chocolate? Well, pumpkin filling is ideal for creating soggy crusts. If you want to brush some melted white chocolate over the baked shell, letting it set up before you pour in the fillings, this would be the time to do so. Just don't tell my sister.


Happy Thanksgiving! I am thankful to you all for reading my blog.

Other Cities Only Make Me Love You Best

Los Angeles, California

We flew home from Kona through San Francisco on November 1st. Just after take-off, our pilot announced that he was going to try to pick up a radio station broadcasting the fifth game of the World Series. If he was able to do this, he would patch it through so that we could listen to the game through our earphones. He was finally successful at doing this around the fourth inning. It was a crackly transmission, but it got better as we proceeded towards the mainland.

Now for those of you who don't have a wide bandwidth when it comes to baseball, I should probably provide the back story that the two teams competing in the World Series were the San Francisco Giants (yea!) and the Texas Rangers (boo!). Game five was crucial to the Rangers. If they lost, the Giants would clinch the World Series. And, again, we were on a plane bound for San Francisco. Presumably, a lot of the passengers were heading home. So, although we were way up in the air, we were ostensibly in Giants' territory, and would be until we caught our connecting flight home to Los Angeles (necessitated by the elimination of our usual direct flight from LAX to Kona. This is probably more information than you need to know, but you know how I am about parentheticals).


When the Giants finally scored, scattered applause broke out throughout the plane. When Wilson (who had come in at the bottom of the ninth in relief) threw his final strike-out, most, if not all, of the passengers applauded. It was cool. When we landed in San Francisco about ninety minutes later, they were already hawking Giants World Champions tee-shirts. Now, I was all for the Giants winning the series, as you've probably figured out by the above parenthetical commentary. You see, currently in Los Angeles, we don't really have a baseball team. We have a baseball divorce. I could fill you in on the divorce proceedings of the owners of the Los Angeles Dodgers, but really, it is all too dismal. So, if you're interested in this tawdry mess, google the Dodgers and/or the McCourts. Suffice it to say that once the Dodgers finished circling the drain this season, we started looking at what was going on with the Giants. I was hoping for a Giants/Yankees series, but somehow the Rangers took the Yankees out. And then there were two.


I was for the Giants all through postseason. You see, though I am from Los Angeles, born and raised, and represent the third-generation in my family who were born in Southern California; while I've always known that there is this huge San Francisco/LA rivalry, and that San Francisco totally disses us for stealing their water . . . I like San Francisco. Enough so, that I almost got married there (though not to Billy, and the less said about that situation the better). Plus, my dad grew up in Palo Alto, and we always spent a lot of time up in the Bay Area. I've got friends there. And I've always had a great time when visiting the city.

So, I was thoroughly enjoying all this San Francisco revelry. It even reminded me of a trip Billy and I took in the early 90s. Billy had received a bonus, which funded a long weekend to San Francisco, where we celebrated his birthday. It was one of those trips where magic was to be found at every turn.


Although we had rented a car, we never took it out of the hotel garage until it was time to return to the airport. We walked a lot, used public transportation during the day, and took taxis at night. We had some memorable meals at restaurants including Postrio, which was in the Prescott Hotel where we were staying. We listened to a pianist playing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes until early morning at the Redwood Room in the Clift Hotel.


Our favorite day was Saturday when, after breakfast at the hotel, we walked a short distance to Union Square to shop. At F.A.O. Schwartz, we purchased The Amazing 8-Ball -- our first in what would become a long line of them, purchasing them both as replacements and gifts. Afterwards, we caught the BART over to Embarcadero Center. Then we began to walk. We walked all the way down Battery to Embarcadero, stopping for lunch at Il Fornaio. Then we walked some more, past the piers and the wharf, all the way to Ghirardelli Square. Eventually, we caught the Hyde Street cable car and rode it back to Union Square. By this time, we'd been gone all day, and had probably walked way beyond a 10K. Our feet were sore, but more pressing than that . . . we were thirsty.


We fell into the hotel and hung a quick right into the bar, where we sat down on bar stools and ordered two Red Tail Ales. The bartender who took our order informed us that the restaurant bar was hosting a private event that evening for MTV. We were welcome to have a drink while the bartenders were setting up for the party, but soon after they would be closing their doors to the public at large. That was fine with us. We just needed enough time to have a beer . . . or two.


I gazed down into my glass of cloudy, unfiltered ale, marveling at the blessed relief of being off my feet, and frankly, out of my shoes. Meanwhile, Billy got out the 8-Ball we had purchased earlier in the day. He began turning it over, checking out responses presumably to unverbalized questions. It drew the bartenders like moths to a flame.


"Oh look," one of them exclaimed. "An 8-Ball!" We had now collected three bartenders.


"Ask a question," Billy suggested.

One of them volunteered, "Am I going to get out of here before midnight tonight?"

Billy turned the 8-Ball over, and read "Don't count on it."


"OK," another guy said. "I've got one. Is Madonna going to be at this party tonight?"

Billy flipped the ball over. "Ask again later."


The third bartender leaned in. "If Madonna is here, am I going to get lucky with her tonight?"


A quick flip. "Signs point to yes," Billy read. We all laughed.

The first bartender said to Billy, "Now you ask one."


Billy paused, then spoke slowly. "What are the chances of us getting a free round in this bar?"

Billy turned over the 8-Ball, then handed it to the first bartender who read it out loud.

"Outlook good!"

Two of them laughed, then moved away down the bar to get back to work. But, the first bartender turned quickly to the refrigerator where he took out two Red Tail Ales and opened them. Turning back, he plunked them down on the bar in front of us. The other two guys looked back at him.

"Hey," he said. "You don't f#@! with the 8-Ball."

We never did hear whether Madonna made it to the party that night. But, if she did, we're sure our bartender got lucky. The 8-Ball had spoken. Thank you for reading my blog. I knew you would. I asked the 8-Ball about it.