Pie crusts plague me. The very thought of creating the properly textured blend of flours, salt, fat, and liquid breaks me into a sweat.
Yet pie speaks irresistibly. Its geometry asserts wholeness and the union of pieces. Its sweet and savory fillings — chilled, set, steaming — draw friends and family around tables through the seasons. Nourishing. Encouraging conversation. Who can resist this satisfying togetherness?
Not I, even with my crust-making phobia.
In October I agreed to co-host(ess) a neighborhood pie potluck. Suddenly the challenge of patting together a passable crust — preferably low in sugar and gluten –was sitting front and center in my kitchen. Over three weeks, I practiced and tested, eventually settling on an almond crust, easily pressed into a 9-inch pan.
In this experimental process I nearly surrendered the unifying spirit of the pie gathering to my personal desire for approval and narrowly defined success. Fortunately I sorted our my motives. I arrived at the party with a slightly imperfect crust. But with my Heart in the right place. And that was quite good enough.