Hometown: Five Dozen Pies

Linda Stansberry provides a column for Redheaded Blackbelt once per month. If you don’t know this homegrown writer’s work, we’re betting you’ll soon come to look forward to every column. And if you do know, you’ve probably already skipped this intro to get to the good stuff, her writing:

A good pie crust should not bubble when you take it out of the oven. The filling should bubble, yes, but the crust? No. Yet here we are, almost 11 o’clock at night, the kitchen looking like someone hit a pinata full of blueberries, with the glare of the oven light revealing an oily froth on the top of my pies, pies that have to make the long trip out to Honeydew in the morning. These are attempts number thirteen and fourteen in my quest to perfect my Mom’s pie crust technique, and they’re the worst yet. 

To bastardize the famous first line from Anna Karenina: “Happy pie crusts are all alike; every unhappy pie crust is unhappy in its own way.” A good pie crust is prepared in cold conditions – the butter or shortening, the counter, the rolling pin, the water you use to bind the crumbs, all should be cold, cold, cold. Roll it out quickly and with as little handling as possible, then fold and drape it over the pie tin. I watched my mother do it hundreds of times. Her pies were things of beauty, especially her famous sweet-tart huckleberry-apple. And her crusts were their crowning glory – each crimp perfect, baked golden brown in our wood stove oven. 

I know what to do. I know how to do it. Despite this my pie crusts have always borne close resemblance to the Mattole Road – crumpled in places, thin in others, torn and patched, threatening to fail at a crucial junctions. The filling is fine, I’m told, but I know the filling isn’t the thing. Every year I volunteer pies for the Mattole Valley Women’s Club booth at the Fourth of July barbecue, and every year my inadequacies bubble to the surface. 

“Why can’t I just bake a simple pie like my Mom?” I said in 2019, sweating and swearing in our Eureka kitchen, pulling my Franken-pies from the stove.

“Now honey, your Mom has baked thousands of pies. She’s had practice,” my boyfriend said. “You only make pie what – once a year? I bet if you made five dozen pies, maybe you’d have it down.”

We hadn’t been living together very long, so he didn’t yet know how to interpret the feverish glint in my eye, or when to stop talking.

“Five dozen pies,” I said slowly. “Five. Dozen. Pies.”

The next week I put together a graphic, a checklist for pie success. I would start with twelve peach pies, move on to a dozen berry, a dozen apple, twelve holiday pies (custard, pumpkin, etc.), twelve meat and twelve fancy contents-to-be-determined pies. At the end of the challenge, I would be a crust expert, a crust warrior, a piemaker extraordinaire. But the end is a long way off. I’ve made every mistake possible so far. Not enough filling. Too much filling. Too much handling of the dough. There have been a lot of patchwork crusts, a lot of swearing, a lot of broken diets.

A bubbling crust, though, that’s something new. The blueberry-peach pies went into the oven looking like pies. They came out looking like mineral springs. What was it? I wondered, looking down at the froth. Too much water? The butter not cut fine enough? By the morning they had firmed up enough to look passable. I took them out to the ranch. My long-suffering father – who has been on the receiving end of my experimental cooking since I was in Osh Gosh B’Gosh overalls – said the crust was just fine, the filling delicious.

I’d like to say there’s a lesson in all of this, that baking fourteen pies over the course of four months has taught me something important about myself. But it really hasn’t, at least not yet. In fact, it’s been kind of an ordeal. I don’t know why I’m putting myself through this. I’m a feminist, for heaven’s sake, and sugar gives me migraines. I can afford to buy a really good pie made by someone else. The people I love will still know I love them if I just buy them a pie or make a really easy cobbler. But apparently I like doing things the hard way. Sorry Dad, friends, family, forty-six pies to go.

Linda StansberryLinda Stansberry is a writer, journalist and rancher who lives in Eureka with her family. Hometown is a syndicated monthly column. For more information or to contact Linda, visit www.lindastansberry.com.

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8 Comments
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I like stars
Guest
I like stars
2 years ago

My grandma says to use lard, not shortening or butter.

Angela Robinson
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Angela Robinson
2 years ago
Reply to  I like stars

Sadly, she is correct. I don’t eat pork or pork by products. I do miss a good lard crust.

The trick with a butter crust is to treat it like a croissant or pastry crust. Cold butter not completely integrated into the dough. It’s a bit hard to do. I’m not always successful. 🙁

Mr. Bear
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Mr. Bear
2 years ago

Frozen grated butter added and barely mixed. Trust me

Gazoo
Guest
Gazoo
2 years ago

My wife is a pie baking “G”-ma.
She bakes 7-10 pies just at thanksgiving.
She also makes cobblers and tarts.
As a matter of fact after dinner last nite she whipped up a sea salt and caramel pie as I have been addicted to the sea salt and caramel ice creams and candies. Ima very lucky guy to be able to enjoy pies made right and quite often.
Great post!! Thanks for the share.
Stay safe out there and hug your loved ones

Guest
Guest
Guest
2 years ago

Pie pictures please.

Xhumboldter
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Xhumboldter
2 years ago

And please, never refrigerate a double crust pie – that delicate flakiness will turn rubbery.

Lisa M Daly
Guest
Lisa M Daly
2 years ago

I share your pain. Yes I’ve heard lard is best, but I have friends who made perfect pie crusts with butter or Crisco.

ToryG
Guest
ToryG
2 years ago

God bless you, my mother-in-laws, cruts were always great. I was raised on Orinoko. From yhe freezer at ShopRite. I tried for years. My husband is the crust maker now and I’m very happy.