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.