One year I went home and discovered where I was: benched. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had just fetched the rolling pin and barely tied on my apron when my mother looked over her shoulder and told me— casually, like it was no big deal—that Adam, my brother-in-law, had already made the pie dough. It was resting in the freezer. “Adam is doing the pies this year,” she said.
It was 11 years ago, but who’s counting? I certainly remember it like it was five minutes ago. I put the flour away, untied the apron, died inside, and asked my mom what I was making. “I don’t know, sweetie—what do you want to make?”Instead, I think I said I’d help my sister with the brussels sprouts.
And the fact that Adam is a great cook and a meticulous piemaker...the fact that his pie crusts come out of the oven puffed, golden, and gorgeously latticed...the fact that my crusts look great going in but come out resembling a patchwork of old arthritic fingers... none of this had any bearing, I’m sure.
DavidTamarkin I love these illustrations