In this mock blog, serial novella, narrator Elizabeth Harper takes her audience through a few memorable anecdotes of her life, in a conversational, good-natured, sometimes goofy (if a little vulgar) style. Stories were originally released surroundin...
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Hello, bakin' bits!
What's the best thing about a good, homemade, apple pie? Like, what's the magical component that makes you wanna keep shoveling it in, in perpetuity, and with little to no regard for your own wellbeing? Is it a buttery, flaky crust? Maybe the marriage of the perfectly-balanced cinnamon, sugar, and nutmeg, with that beautiful hint of vanilla? Is it the apples themselves? I mean, after all, different types of apples produce different types of pies. Granny Smiths give you a firmer, more tart filling, whereas, say, a Red Delicious-based filling will veer more toward the sweet, mushy side of things.
Or maybe it's something more ethereal than the actual pie that attracts you.
Something you can't touch. I know it is for me.
It's the simple act of cooking...in a broader sense.
As I've likely said more times than I can count (but definitely haven't said here), the moment I was old enough to be in the kitchen with my Mom, I was. Every single time we could be. She had hundreds of recipes, both original and borrowed, and she wanted nothing more than to personally pass them all on to me through one-on-one instruction. I was, of course, super into learning them, and even though I was incredibly small and excitable, Mom matched every bit of my exuberance. She was brought up to believe that if you could talk and walk on your own, you were ready to learn the basics of cooking. Starting with the joys of baking.
Strictly supervised, obviously.
We started with cookies; First no bakes, then oatmeal, plain ol' sugar, and chocolate chip. And once I had a grasp on those, we moved on to more complex ones like molasses and gingerbread. I had a super hard time with my measurements at first, as I was trying so hard to mimic Mom, and she eyeballed literally everything. To me, it looked like she was just dumping stuff into the bowls, so that's what I did.
"Oh, Lib! Sorry, that's my fault!" she'd say, scooping out the excess.
Then she'd fight her very fucking nature and use measuring utensils, solely so I could see and learn the proper amounts. She would scoop out, say, the correct measurement of flour, pour it in a plastic bag and say, "This is what two-and-a-half cups feels like" or whatever, as she handled it off to me. Then she'd have me dump it in a bowl and say, "And that's what it looks like", hoping to get me on the right track to eyeballing like she did.
Eventually, I started getting really good at it, then we moved on to what I was waiting for...pies. Sweet, tasty pies. Smiley pies. You see, Mom had a habit of putting smiley faces on all her sweet baked goods, she'd either frost, carve, or bake them in by drawing them in butter. They were always there, ready to brighten somebody's day. All her treats were absolutely fucking stoked to spend their final moments of existence in your mouth.
