Four and Twenty Blackbirds Pie: An Illustrated History →

Though there are a few days that claim to be THE “Day of Pie" — the U.S. House of Representatives recognized “Pi Day” on March 14th, and a second somewhat dubiously decreed “National Pie Day” on December 1st — according to the American Pie Council, today, January 23rd, is the actual “National Pie Day.” It was probably chosen so that people have at least one thing to look forward to after the pie-promises of Thanksgiving and Christmas have faded, and you’re left cold and hungry in the depths of mid-winter.

In honor, of this, we present an illustrated investigation and recipe of the legendary 4 and 20 Blackbirds Pie.

Read on via The Hairpin

Belgian Sweets Not Just for Sinterklaas →

Though my grandmother Georgette was born in the United States, she is half Belgian (Flemish) and half French. On top of the cabinets in her blue kitchen you'll find a little Dutch village of porcelain houses. Above the sink are miniature figures of the Statue of Liberty, Manneken Pis and the Eiffel Tower — representations of her three nationalities. In her Delft cookie jar you'll find speculaas (also called speculoos) — the Dutch windmill-shaped gingersnap-like cookie traditionally eaten on St. Nicholas Day.

Although my grandmother has speculaas on hand year-round, St. Nicholas Day, which was last week (Dec. 6), reminded me of our family tradition. We would get together with my grandmother for a little celebration, with gifts from Sinterklaas in our shoes, Belgian chocolates and, of course, her homemade speculaas.

Read on via NPR

The Life of Pie →

I go through the same process every time I make a pie crust, which is often. The same measuring of salt, the same blending of dry and wet ingredients, the same feeling of chunks of butter and flour clinging to my fingers. And regardless of what recipe variation you or your mother or your grandmother, your brother or husband or wife use, they likely follow similar steps, whether they prefer butter, Crisco or lard.Though I love that flaky-fruity first bite, that anticipation as I pull a hot pie, filling bubbling, out of the oven, pie baking for me also has a deeper, almost spiritual import. For me, pie baking is really about ritual.

This idea is nothing new. Read any food writing today, and the author probably talks about ritual in some form. That “local,” “handmade” and “artisanal” you read about really is all about process and connection.

Read on via American Food Roots

The Pies of Late Summer

My dad used to sing to me an old folk song before I went to sleep. One of my favorite verses went:

Peach in the summertime, apples in the fall.

If I can't have the one I love, I won't have none at all.

I still like that lyric for its simplicity and its assertion of seasonal eating at a time when that was unquestioned. You ate fresh apples in the fall (and probably storage apples through the winter) and peaches all summer. Love could be fleeting and unreliable, but autumn apples and summer peaches would always be there.

That little girl who was serenaded each night with words of lost love and fruit grew up to have a pie obsession. I write a pie blog, bake at least once a week, and collect old pie paraphernalia, heritage recipes and family stories. In a way, that old verse explains this obsession. Though I have many reasons for loving the classic dessert — its ties to tradition and the past, its association with women home cooks and, of course, its deliciousness — one of the main reasons I like pie is because maybe more than any other dish, it is dependent on season.

Read on via NPR

Lardass Returns!

Prior to the mid-20th century, lard, the rendered fat of a pig, was America’s preferred grease. In the 1950s, however, the Procter & Gamble company had a lot of excess oil on their hands, and developed Crisco, marketing it to housewives and cooks as the better, healthier lard. Then we all watched the movie Stand By Me, met the character Lardass, and lard was officially pronounced dead.

But recently lard has waddled its way back to our tables, as pork-based Southern dishes are all the rage and nutritionists tell us it's more about unsaturated vs. saturated than the fat itself. Don’t get me wrong, lard is nothing but 100% pure unadulterated FAT (butter compares at 81%), but in this pie crust recipe, a little goes a long way for a flaky, fluffy, beautiful crust. Throw in some potatoes, chilies, cheddar, and bacon, and you’ve got yourself a perfect pie for a hot summer day at the beach. After all that fat, you’ll be a pro at floating along on those ocean waves!

Read on in The Runcible Spoon

The Mulberry's The Worst Berry There Ever Was! →

There’s a recording I came across one day while browsing the archives of the American Folklife Center. The tape is not old—it was recorded in 1995—but if you didn’t know that, you could guess that it was from any time, really. There’s a slight tape hiss and the West Virginia accents from Kenny and Martha Pettry are thick. They’re talking about berry pies that Kenny’s mother used to make, and he lists them off in a cadence, pausing between each one. “Yea, my mother made pies out of mulberries. Blueberries. Blackberries. Huckleberries.” Then Martha interjects, “I just never did care for no mulberries.” The two talk over each other for a bit and she exclaims, “The mulberry’s the worst berry there ever was!”

Now how could this be true? I was worried, listening to the undoubted berry wisdom of these mountain dwellers. Because though it sounds silly to say, Martha Pettry’s least favorite berry played a crucial role in some of my most foundational experiences. Or, the mulberry was a the grounding force of the one glorious season in which I found myself falling into the rest of my life. 

Essay originally appeared on the now-defunct Gilt Taste. Copy available via Internet Archive

The Best Time My Civil War Soldier Came Home

My boyfriend, let’s call him Eli, fights for the Union Army. Sometimes Confederate, but mostly Union. He uses the excuse “I don’t have enough ammunition” as a reason for not going away for a weekend, and he once gave me a piece of hardtack, saying “Something to remember me by — it’ll last longer than I will.” Yep, dude’s a Civil War reenactor. And though my parents and friends may have guffawed a little when I first told them, dating a reenactor is pretty great.

For one, it means he’s most definitely a history nerd. Now maybe this is not a plus for you, but for me it’s a major pro. You’ll have flirty email correspondence in Morse code, and you can spend an evening together geeking out over early color photographs from the Russian Empire. It also means he will most likely love to cuddle up over an episode or two (or three, or four) of Downton Abbey, then engage you in conversation over the implication of Sybil’s harem pantaloons or Branson’s Irish radicalism.

Read on via The Hairpin

Pi(e) R Squared Revolution is Round

Story and Photographs by Emily Hilliard and Lora Smith

LORA:  I wasn’t sure what I thought about Emily when I first met her. She's smart, witty, a great baker, has an extensive knowledge of avant-garde artists, wears vintage dresses over brightly colored tights with covetableboots, is always coming or going from an adventure, knits a mean scarf, can play guitar, fiddle, and sing.

I briefly considered hating her.

But that quickly changed over a pot of hot apple butter. After a trip to pick apples in the mountains, Emily invited me over to help put up them up. It wasn’t the best batch of apple butter that either of us have made, but it didn’t matter. As we peeled and cored the apples, grated ginger, fumbled in the spice cabinet to find anise, clove and cinnamon, and measured sugar, Emily’s tiny and modestly outfitted graduate student kitchen in downtown Carborro, North Carolina expanded to hold layers of memory, time and stories. By the time we were ready to jar, the butter wasn’t as thick as we’d hoped, but our friendship had found a perfect set.

EMILY: That first food project set the tone for the rest of our friendship. Though we’ve since hiked mountains in Kentucky, stumbled through clogging lessons together, and spent many-a-night out at the bar (but not too many, mind you!), the times I think we’ve felt the closest, shared the most secrets, hopes, and future plans, is in the kitchen—preparing, enjoying, and sharing food.

Read on in Zenchilada