Emily Anne Geddes - My Blog

This morning started as many have this week: waking up to the sounds of two miniature people running around in their grandmother’s old wooden clogs, hollering about whether or not their lazy, n’er-do-well aunt was ever going to wake up and how embarrassing it is that she hasn’t thus far. Their language isn’t exactly that pretentious, but you get the idea.

When I finally rolled out of my sheets, I spent most of the midday watching the second season of Pushing Daisies, a purchase I will never regret. Thank you, Costco, and thank you, sister, for having a membership.

As you may or may not already know, the protagonist of PD just so happens to be one Ned, the Pie Maker. Henceforth and hitherto and all that crap, 90% of the mise-en-scene takes place in a wonderfully coloured pie shop brimming with overflowing pies of every variety. This is what started the huhah that was to follow.

I decided to make a pie.

My mom has been famous for her pies, as mothers tend to be, but I promise you that my mother has earned said fame more so because, well, she is my mother. I rushed to her side and tugged on her sleeve, holding out a pen and paper and my best Sunday smile. She returned it with the recipe that is the golden fleece of any pie enthusiast: the perfect crust.

After the initial excitement died down, I realized I had no fruit save four small apples, and no desire to use pre-made fillings. Then I looked up only to find my dear mother, holding a foot-long zucchini. She planted the seed with a testimony of her own experiences dabbling in zucchini-turned-apple desserts.

It began.

While the five- and nine-year-old girls were downstairs, I hastily peeled and sliced the zucchini until it bore no resemblance to the veggie and all semblances of a tree fruit that the girls would actually eat.

My particular worries were attached to the older of the two, who is increasingly notorious for her “no I don’t think so” replies when it comes to anything other than grilled cheese or pb&j. So I set a couple of the apples available out beside the chopping block and threw away all evidence of the green monster.

Then, it was onto the tackling of the crust. I had grand ideas. They were promptly crushed. The crust worked just fine, but no amount of kneading or begging could get the stupid dough to flatten just right without sticking to the pin or shattering at the slightest attempt to lift. So it was pressed in and we all pretended that we didn’t see anything.

There was no hope of creating a good top crust, so I improvised with some brown sugar, butter, and flour, which worked out quite nicely in the end.

It took serious coaxing and exaggeration of the delicious texture of the pastry (along with watching her five-year-old sister devour a slice) before the picky princess would touch the pie. This is what it looked like.

But I’m sure this is what it felt like.

For my first attempt, I’m pretty darn happy with this pie. I was thrilled that the sugar and cinnamon completely transforms the zucchini into a mock-fruit with such moxy that you would never tell the difference if you weren’t told. It’s also a nice, light alternative, cutting out the sugar from the apples (though there is plenty added, mind you; this is not a diabetic dish) and feels less guilt-ridden on the tongue. Next I’m thinking that I need to master the crust aspect of the dish, working my way up to creating some fun designs in the tops.

Earlier this week was an attempt at making des baguettes d’artiste, but I managed to burn them. As soon as I figure out why, you’ll be the first to know. After my friends, family, and acquaintances, of course.

That’s all. I’ll see you next time I try not to burn the house down.

Emily Anne.

On the television: Coraline (for the third time in 14 hours).

In the living room: The nieces.

Recent Web Searches: True Blood free online viewing, old high school peers on social networking sites, and the upcoming Perseids meteor shower.

Can I just say that I have the sudden urge to floor it to a tattoo parlour for a quick inking session on my lower back: I’m thinking a naked girl crouched on top of some unrealistic red mushrooms. Oh, and please don’t forget the marijuana-shaped ivy wrapped around her arms and legs.

Did you know that dalmations like zuchinni stems? She keeps sneezing. I hope she doesn’t kick the proverbial bucket.

The past two weeks have been a blur of train tracks, salty limes, and familial relationship building across state and national borders. A week of nannying kept me on the northern Oregonian coast with two blondes under four feet tall. There were repeat showings of Jaws 1&2, What About Bob, and Hotel for Dogs, paired quite savourably with fairy wings on the dogs (pink butterfly-style for the dalmation, blue flutter for the lazy-eyed boston terrier).

After prying myself from the fun, I spent a day in logistics-planning, just trying to organize the five meet-ups in various suburbs and districts of Portland. Beginning in Vancouver, at a fondue-and-sausage luncheon with family (Gustav’s, for the locals), I then trekked through NE, NW, and SE PDX, had dinner with my favorite family of Jewish vegetarians (and the occasional vegans) before midnight ice cream and a near-arrest at the park in Lake Oswego, followed by a half-watching of Step Brothers in Hillsburrito (only half due to my passing out on the couch). Oh, and in between there was the mandatory delivery of a truckload of house show equipment.

The next morning featured my first Oregon-to-Washington trainride with the youngest of my two much-older brothers. Summary of the track crossing: too much leg room, not enough sweatshirt. We got into Spokane at midnight and drove home to get ready for a week of backpacking.

Two days later we were hoisting on our packs at the trailhead and hiking a good five or six miles to a lodge (“hut,” they insists, but I refuse) in the southeastern British Columbia’s Selkirk Mountains with its own hydroplant and Wolf range, only accesible by helicopter or mostly-uphill trudging. Once you’re up there it’s more than worth the drudgery for views alone. Not to mention the all-encompassing “What happens in the cabin shall stay in the cabin” commandment. (I stood by this when my brother offered up tequila shots with salt and lime while we were sitting next to our dear mother in the cabin kitchen).

And now I’m sitting in the kitchen as the short blondies playwith their American Girl dolls in the living room and the Coraline menu is on repeat on the flat screen. There was some baguette baking and another close encounter with the law in between Canada and Oregon, but those stories are for another day.

For this morning I leave you with the following sentiment: the concept of family is weird. If you email me to ask for my information, at least have the courtesy to glance at my social networking page (from which you harvested my email address) before asking my about my non-existent spouse. If you’re going to the trouble of asking about my life, maybe you should pretend to be conversational? Or you could just stick with the approach of this-is-for-our-records-nothing-more, I guess.

That’s all.

EmilieyAnne.