Brown Bagging It

With Fall here, it's the perfect time to go pick some apples at a local orchard or pick some up at the grocery store.  But this time, when they ask "Paper or plastic," go with the paper, because you're going to bake your pie in it

That's right, baking the pie in a brown paper bag makes a perfect, crunchy yet flaky crust and a perfectly cooked filling —neither too hard nor too mushy.

Partner in Grime spent most of Sunday afternoon working out in the yard and flowerbeds before winter, so the least I could do for him was bake him a pie.

To start - Brigid's foolproof pie crust. (makes 2, one for now and one to freeze)

4 cups all-purpose flour
1 3/4 cups lard
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon vinegar
1 egg
1/2 cup very cold water

Add flour, shortening, sugar, and salt to a large bowl. Get out your pastry cutter.

Mix flour and shortening with the pastry cutter until it looks nice and crumbly, crumbs should be much small than the size of peas. In a small bowl, whisk together the vinegar, egg, and water.

Add to the flour mixture, stirring in till well-moistened.

Shape it with clean hands into a ball of pastry dough. (Don’t overhandle.)

Divide the dough into four equal-sized balls.

Wrap each ball with plastic and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes before using. These will keep a week in the fridge or a couple months in the freezer in freezer bags.

OK, pie for breakfast

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out 1 disk into a circle about 1/8-inch thick. Keep rolling until the circle is at least 2 inches larger than your pan. Line the pie pan with the dough, letting the edge hang over a bit. Roll the second disk, place it on a sheet pan, and chill it until you're ready to build your pie.

Filling:

5 Granny Smith apples, peeled, cored, and thickly sliced
1/2 cup sugar
1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 1/2 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces

Equipment: 9-inch aluminum pie pan, 1 medium-sized brown paper bag

Make the Filling: 
In a medium bowl, toss the apple slices with sugar, cornstarch, lemon juice, vanilla, cinnamon, salt, and nutmeg. Transfer to the pie shell and dot with the butter. Brush the overhanging edges of the dough with water. Carefully cover with the rolled-out top crust, then pinch the edges together and turn them under all around to make a thick edge. To decorate the rim, press it all around with the back of a fork, or just pinch it to seal. With a knife, cut a couple of small V's in the top crust.

Slide the pie into the brown paper bag and fold the top down. Staple the bag shut and place it on a sheet pan. Bake in preheated 425 F. oven for 1 hour. (the bag will smell like it's burning - it's not). 

Let the pie cool at least 30 minutes before serving. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The Scent of Memory

I choose many things by the scent of them. Scent is the key part of taste. People that lose their sense of smell often lose their enjoyment of food. Smell is transport or torment, as simple as hunger, as complex as love. Scent is memory, simply the whiff of something takes us back.

The smell of  the original Revlon Charlie perfume, worn the six months I spent in London on an assignment years ago where I bought some in an apothecary, the fresh clean air smell of raw corn silk, brushing my nose as I waited in an Indiana blind. Rosemary baking on bread and the floral steam scent that was my Mom hand ironing everything in our house, including the sheets, while I played with my little Tonka trucks underfoot. Waking up now, the faint scent of shampoo, sandalwood and vanilla on my pillow.

The smells of childhood are all their own, be it your own childhood or that of your children. Clean milky skin, the scent of fresh grass, bicycle oil and band-aids, the bite of apple in a school lunchbox, soap bubbles, and Hershey's chocolate. The teen years are simply a smell of angst, gangly legs and sweat, locker rooms, Right Guard deodorant, burnt rubber, that lay as real today as that of a dead red rose that lay in a drawer, the scent of which, to this day, rends your heart like a veil.
Then the smell of a hospital, a smell I hate to this day, watching someone become more and more body and less and less self, until the self was so wrapped up in pain all that was left was the body, wasting away, releasing its scent to the room. Yet I could still hug them and could still smell, if only in my mind, the warmth of cookies, the smell of Wind Song perfume, and baby shampoo. Not for me, an end like that, lay me out where I smell only fresh rain or motor oil, release me to the wild, to become part of it, then never look back.

Scents are like colors, bringing back memories some would wish swept away. Crayons, Flesh and Indian Red, color not politically incorrect, and soon bleached to remove the possible offense. Just as some mask the breathy clean musk of natural beauty with too much powder and perfume, covering up that which is innately desirable. But scent, like colorful crayons, remains vivid in memory, drawing horizons on pieces of paper that went back home to that kitchen that smelled of perfume and cinnamon. I can still remember that last walk through my childhood home as I took in those scents; of yeast and meat, spice and coffee, tracing them with my noise through alleyways of retrospection, cataloging them with the smells of other things, marionberry pie, fresh bread, fresh cotton, and the exhaust of a muscle car.

There are scents that in just one moment, take us back to a place, a single, distinct point of time.

The stale air in a bedroom, the smell of sleep laying deep in your throat as your brain refuses to rest. You watch someone sleeping, looking at that exposed place on their neck where the sheet and their hair almost meet, the skin laying pale in the moonlight. Flesh, bridging a contrast between soft silky hair that smells faintly of sandalwood and the sheets pure smell of crisp softness. You place your lips on that space of skin, inhaling softly and deep, breathing in the balm for future tears.

The oily jet smell of a turbine engine blowing up and out from the hot eternal darkness of an engine, the odor rising like a flame and blowing cleanly back, across the tarmac. You never forget that odor, the vivid, dead perfume that is a dinosaur cooked on a kerosene stove, coating everything it touches
.

That particular smell followed me throughout the years. The air smells like brimstone, upon the disembodied plane of it, our shadows move, walking in grids, slowing, not stopping, as if our shadows only congealed for a moment, in proximate musings.

That coppery smell of blood for me, is not just a smell of maturation, it's a visceral journey to those places I've stood, the blaze of remaining fire swimming in my eyes like two tiny torches, daring me to tear up. I don't, I can't. Not here, not now. The tears will travel back, harsh, sparse swift drops, brought back with the scent of soundless explosions and cold fire, to be gathered up into a sealed red container, where they remain as I drive home.

But, there are other smells, so many smells now, that bring only smiles. The smell of wet dog, soaked and tireless, rushing from the water that beads on his dense fur, as slow as chilled glycerin. The smell of green, as the wheels of an airplane, pull away from it, the length and breadth of life measured in the takeoff run on a freshly mowed runway. Garlic baking, a peppery meat infused scent of Merlot poured into glasses at lunchtime, stealing away from work and duty for a few days of leave in a city foreign of sight and scent, dim sum and sourdough, the salty scent of an oceans' release.

There is the smell of fresh bluing, the smell of the first firearm I ever bought as an adult. I held it, taking in the deep blued finish that seemed to hold all reluctant light and breath, feeling the weight in my hand, the scent of cold steel bracing me.  Then I simply stepped up and fired it. A single shot, in which a lifetime lay behind me. A single shot, upon the bare and pockmarked wall, the shadow of its form shuddered in what was not the wind, but my own trepidations, until holding it steady, I squeezed the trigger with one intake of virgin breath.

At that moment, in the rich, trembling roar of its power, the trepidation fell behind and I knew that this would be a responsibility that would stay with me always. In that instant, the sounds and smell of every old hunting rifle I had ever been entrusted with under the watchful guidance of my parents, came in that single converging brace of gunpowder smell and noise that was that moment, spoiling me for anything else.

So many smells, so many memories. Food and wine; wind and steel, all intertwined, the power and the need of it all. I wonder what scents tomorrow will bring to store up for later? The rain has passed, deep cleansing rain that's washed from the sky all burden and need. I open the window just an inch, curtains inhaling in and out with the scent of fresh air that is as new as the day waiting to be breathed in deep. - Brigid

The Grills of Summer

As summer says goodbye, and Fall starts making that "let's just be friends" speech, it's time to think about one last grill. It's dipped down in the 40s at night this last week, so it was a "now or next summer" kind of moment.

First, I made some buns - well, not exactly buns.  I had no yeast, no eggs, and no milk, as Partner in Grime had been on the road on a long trip and I had used up what I had, and hadn't needed to make a trip to the store (or the fence to trade the neighbors some bread for eggs from their chickens).

I had flour, butter, and Kefir (fermented milk found in the yogurt aisle) and honey. These turned out great - sturdy enough for the burger, but with a texture that was tender and biscuit-like, soaking up all the burger juices. Plus, they took 5 minutes to get into the oven. The leftovers will be frozen to be a base for stew in the coming weeks

No yeast "Buncuits" (a cross between a biscuit and a hamburger bun)
In one bowl, mix:
3 and 1/2 cups flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 tsp. salt

In another bowl mix:
1 and 1/2 cups kefir (fermented milk drink) or plain yogurt

1 stick butter, softened until starting to melt 

3 Tablespoons wild honey

Combine wet and dry and stir until it holds together. Place on a floured board and knead 12-14 times, adding flour as necessary to keep it from being too sticky. This is more than you'd knead biscuits but LESS than bread. You don't want it so smooth and elastic that you have a hockey puck when you are done. Make six small balls out of the dough. Knead the dough in your hands, form it into a ball, and place it on a greased baking sheet. Flatten slightly. Bake in a 375°F preheated oven for 17-20 minutes. The top will NOT get brown, but the bottom will. Check for doneness with a toothpick.

 Then, it was time to light the briquettes.

 The rest, they say, is history.

Bison burger with Worcestershire and maple bacon seasoning, sharp cheddar, and garlic mayo on the tender "buncuit".  It was worth it.

Fall is Here

The neighborhood kids are in school, and the trees are shedding their leaves.  Once the Village has finished jackhammering my whole street as part of a water line replacement project, I will enjoy the quiet of Fall. 

Invisible Words

 Blessed be the Lord, my strength, who teaches my hands to war, and my fingers to fight. - Psalms 1:44

On my last trip home, before his death, I took my big brother to breakfast one morning while Dad was at the doctor. Not feeling so good after chemo, he went only to please his little sister. Before we dug into our plates, we prayed. As we bowed our heads, the entrance door opened with a waft of cold air and the murmur of pouring rain. I looked up and noticed the people at the next table were not looking at the door, but rather, at our table, as if our actions were unknown to them.

My brother and I were adopted, and although not related by blood, my family shaped me in ways I'd not have known otherwise.  We grew up in a small logging town, being part of a community both inside and outside of the church.  I was raised with the values of my parents, meals taken as a whole family, said around the table, with Grace always being spoken before we began.

When I went back home again upon my brother's death, Dad and I still ate at that table; still sat in the same pew in church. There's comfort there in that community of saints and sinners. As we prayed, I glanced at my Dad, who had lived a life of total love, service, and honor, sensing how his heart would soon fail him. It's a strong heart, a good heart, but it was failing him more each day. He would see me looking at him and put his hand on mine as we bowed our heads in the silence that was not silence but was innumerable.

Was that fair? Yet, he had almost ten decades more than his first daughter, born in extraordinary perfection, simply too early and too small, the awful perfect prayer of his firstborn, who breathed only days, my mom rendered barren from the travail of the birth. Yet from that death came life, adopting children no one wanted, and soon the table was filled with small hands, small hearts, and much laughter. 

Had my parents closed off their hearts in that original loss, that table would have been silent. Although I’d already lost my Mom, my brother, and soon Dad, they would leave me with love and forgiveness, just as my heavenly Father does.

I've certainly had to ask for that forgiveness in my talks with God. For I talk to Him regularly, in the woods, when the light has a weary quality to it, like a backwater pool of light lying low, winter's light is crisp, clean, illuminating everything so clearly.  The words are less than wishes and more than regrets, and even if I didn't state them out loud, I could hear them with my breathing as they gathered within the intent of breath and came forth in a rush of cold air, invisible words going up to an invisible God.

Sometimes, He and I talk as I'm standing in the middle of a scene of dark desolation and crime scene tape, black bag in my hand, red smeared on my boots, as bold as if painted on a door frame, a sign that for tonight, I was to be spared.  Perhaps this one time I did not save His sparrow which He perhaps neglected to mark, but I am here to reconcile the remains. It's just talk, but it's still a prayer; prayer being more than the order of words, the conscious calling of the mind that is speaking, or the sound of the voice praying. I do not expect to hear anything back; the communication between us was tongued with fire beyond the blaze that is dying next to me. But it's comforting, words spoken into the void, penitence and belief, as all around hope is falling into embers. He may not respond, but He is there, Never and Always.

So I do not care if someone looks at me oddly if I bow my head. I only smile when someone says, How can you do that with all that you've seen, the pain and harm that man can inflict on one another?

But I can, for I have come to realize that the same God who seemed to sit silently while hearts ceased beating, also breathed life into everyone else around me whom I love deeply, now shaping their strong hands and putting a spark in their vision. So it is, I don't clench my hands in anger in all that I've witnessed, have borne, but simply give thanks. God writes death on all our hearts, just as He writes life. Our story is penned as much by our actions as by His creation. Our heart is a journal that only we keep, its entries scribed by both man and God. Its ending is as much a mystery as we are.

I, for one, am thankful for the words.

It has been 11 years since my brother passed, and the few precious things he left me are on the shelves with other treasured things where I can see them when I wake up each morning.  Small, simple things - powerful things

With the meal, I will say a prayer of thanks for that and many things. For my brother and his brave heart. For those who prayed for me over the years, even when I didn't deserve it. For forgiveness of sin, for the blessing of the one who loves me, even in my imperfections.

Bless us, oh Lord, for these thy gifts.