I don’t do pies. As a fussy child, I wouldn’t eat them at all. Something about the hardness of the crust and the softness of the insides. I grew out of that. Sort of. Given a choice, I will always choose cake. But these days, with so much time alone at home, sometimes I stop working, turn off Netflix and my online puzzles, and bake. I had purchased a box of prefab crust on a whim, and I had all these apples I had intended to eat for snacks, but I had eaten chocolate chip cookies instead, so . . . Below is the result, which led to deciding “Bad Pie” was a great title for a poem.
BTW, if I have to eat pie, I prefer marionberry or chocolate creme. How about you?
Bad Pie I don’t know why I bought the boxed pie crust. Seeking something different, I guess. I don’t usually make pies. I’m more of a bread baker. The box sat in the fridge for weeks while the apples sagged a little more each day until I decided to combine the two for breakfast. How different is pie than a turnover, fritter or coffee cake? It’s all pastry dough and fruit. I dug deep in the cupboard for the Pyrex pan, lay the box on its side to read the recipe: Perfect Apple Pie. Surely Pillsbury knows. Unroll the chilled crust and press it down flat. Peel and slice the apples. Peel? What for? Apple slices, granulated sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg. Mix, spoon it into the crust. Gently unroll the cover, fold and flute the edges. Cut air holes. It’s an apple work of art. Bake 40 to 45 minutes, stopping at 15 to shield the rim with foil. But the foil keeps slipping off, and hot apple goo bubbles through the holes, burning my fingers. Still, inhale that luscious scent. Do you smell that, I ask the dog. She’s licking the carpet, God knows why. The table is set, the pie sufficiently cooled. Hot tea steeping, I cut me a giant slice, plunge in my fork. The apple spits out of the burnt crust, its consistency like the box it came in, the one with the Perfect Apple Pie recipe. The peels, separated from the fruit, stick to my teeth. I should have made banana bread. What did I do wrong? I pressed, sliced, mixed, spooned, unrolled, and fluted. I failed at foiling, I should have peeled, but still . . . Now I have to eat this pie. I bought the crust, used all my apples. I have no one to share it, thank the Lord. They’d choke. I’m not a fan of apple pie. But I eat it. An apple a day and all that.