The pie crust that made me violent

Yes, that's right, violent. Usually baking is an enjoyable hobby for me. I enjoy the rhythm and motion of my hands mixing, or kneading, or working dough. Tasting my creations is also a bonus that brings me great satisfaction. But once in a while, either out of impatience, lack of motivation, or simple frustration, a baking project can bring the worst out in me.

So it was a couple of weeks ago that I found myself cursing the crust of an apple pie tart that then became an open pie with crumbling crust.

I should have thought twice about making a pie in the first place. Pies are not my forte. If it wasn't warning enough 12 years ago when my first pie-making experiment was taste-tested by my new father-in-law, who happens to be married to a woman who can make a dozen pie crusts in her sleep. All I will mention about this first pie of mine was that it had an inch-thick crust, was made with a guava paste filling, and ellicited the comment from my father-in-law, "that is interesting," after one bite (and no other bites taken after that).

So, here I was, 12 years later, making a French apple tart for Charles from my "Baking with Julia" cookbook. Let me just mention here that this book is amazing, and not one recipe is poorly written. Charles & I make professional-quality baked goods from these recipes, and so the fault is not in the book. No, unfortunately, the fault lies with me. And the first thing that made this a disasterous recipe was that I substituted the flour. If there is anything I should be learning, it's that hippy flour, and hippy sugar and all other "natural" baked products don't always work the same way when used in a conventional recipe. Knowing this, I still decided to use my organic wheat pastry flour. As I worked the dough in the food processor (another fact I likely shouldn't admit to my mother-in-law, who makes all by hand), everything was coming together quite nicely. I was quick with my cold shortening and my ice water. I pulsed until all was combined. I formed a ball and then flattened into a disk in cellophane. And I stuck it in the fridge for two hours.

Upon pulling my dough out of the fridge and rolling it out though, I discovered that this seemingly beautiful dough was anything but. In fact, it was just a sad crumbly mess. I tried flouring my rolling pin with excess. I rolled slowly. I rolled quickly. I stuck it in the fridge for a few more minutes to tighten it up, but to no avail, the crust stayed crumbly. I got so mad I started cursing and steaming up inside and decided I better go outside to cool down. So, I slammed the back door and walked around the house in darkness, raging at the dough, and raging even more to myself that I could get so angry over a dessert.

I marched back in with composure and formed a ball, then a disk, then again started rolling. It was not cooperating with me though. I just repeated the mantra, "it's just pie crust, it's just pie crust" over and over until all I could do was resent the fact that this pie crust was delaying my efforts to cook a three-course dinner for my husband. I knew we'd be eating at 1 a.m., which is typical when I cook more than one dish.

I stuck the dough back in the fridge and began working on another part of dinner, giving myself some time to relax. Unfortunately, I didn't relax because I knew somewhere within me that this crust was not going to work. But, I tried again, in true style of enjoying self-torture. And this time, I blew my top. Just as my six-year-old and husband walk in to be a silent audience (no pressure there, really), I no longer can handle the crust crumble. I take that big thick wooden rolling pin and just start pounding the kitchen counter in rage while crusty crumbs fly here and there. After drumming myself frantic, I finally toss the pin across the counter top and into the dining room, look down at my frightened daughter, look up at my disgusted husband and rush out of the house in tears. I have just become a violent, baking psychopath. Is this all worth it?

I sat in the backyard under a fir tree and contemplated how a dessert could bring this out in me. The closest I could explain was that my perfectionism could not handle anything so precisely opposite of perfect. I felt defeated. Me, who makes pretty little sweet things, could not make a classic American (or French) dessert.

I did manage to come back to that pie crust though. I basically smooshed it into a pie pan instead of a tart pan. I added my tart filling, and made a tart design with my thinly sliced apples. I baked it as it was, with all it's hideousness. The crust crumbled as I cut into it, so that we had heaping piles of messy apple goo and flaky organic wheat crust on our plates. But you know, with some homemade cinnamon ice cream, even that big angry project turned out tasting good enough to finish. Lessons learned? Oh, maybe a few. I hope.