To make a decent crust, you must use water
chilled with cubes of ice in flour
chilled as well. This I learned
from Judy, who serves an apple pie
as glistening as first frost
in October.
My problem is wanting to smooth it
to touch and touch
the uneven bits until they let go
and ease into the shape
they are trying to become.
All my warmth is too much.
Eager fingers change the chemistry
of the simplest ingredients.
Relentless attention makes things tough,
bound together,
impenetrable.
No room to breathe.
Judy says
you have to cut in the cold fat, the water and salt
then cover the lot and set it in the fridge
overnight.
This seems inhumane, but how would I know?
I've crafted dozens of failed attempts
and not one
a recipe worth repeating.
Put the thing on ice.
Sit on your hands,
keep all that excess heat
for your own self.
You still have a chance to roll it out
and fill it with sweetness.
But whether it melts your tongue
or is merely edible
was already decided
by what went in
well before you pierced the skin.
Your poem evokes all of my pie crust inadequacy. The impatience, desire to shape, to perfect, how all of that touching just spoils a thing. My crust mentor is named Jocelyn and our pie was raspberry with tapioca beads to thicken. So delicious.
ReplyDelete