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Posts Tagged ‘New England’

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Flagrant imitation of a Four and Twenty Blackbirds shot. Their pies always look like the work of a New England grandma, made as geese fly overhead and honk faintly, wistfully, as wood smoke curls into the grey clouds.

My pies tend to be fruit based. Or homemade low-fat vanilla pudding + fruit based. This is because I’m usually the one eating my pies, and if I made pies like the above for myself, I’d be as big as a Boeing*. I made it for my friend Matt’s annual ‘Pie-Day Friday’ party**, for which he requested something that comprised his favorite combination, chocolate and peanut butter. This is also my own personal kryptonite, so I was happy to oblige him.

But it was strange, and not just because Martha Stewart’s recipe was written too loosely, and not just because her staff has a worrying obsession with writing recipes using off-sized baking pans that no one owns. It was odd to make a pie crust and fill it with peanut butter and chocolate, and no fruit at all. And they have you press in bits of homemade peanut brittle into the peanut butter. There was a lot of leftover brittle, so I ignored the instruction to drizzle more peanut butter on top (which was easy to ignore, as I don’t own a microwave to melt it, and warming it in a pan just burns it and makes your house smell like the boiler room at J.M. Smucker. Hypothetically speaking.) and instead I just stuck more pieces of brittle around the edges, Stonehenge style. It was odd, and all told, it was honestly less of a pie than a giant round candy bar.

But conversation noticeably dried up for a little while while the guests ate it, so I know it went over well.

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It didn’t call for fleur de sel, either, but there it is.

*Wüsthof-sharp analogy that will be dated embarrassingly soon, like circa Thursday morning, so I hope you’re reading this is in a timely fashion.

**The invitation said to bring leftover pie from Thanksgiving or to bring a new one. I asked Matt, a prosecutor, ‘But if we all walk in with pies, wouldn’t that leave you with still more leftover pie, necessitating yet another pie party?’ He replied, ‘Tell no one you have unraveled our scheme.’

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Quick little post today, recuperating as I am from running crew every night this past week, but wanted to tell you all about the blueberries I found on Saturday at the farmers market a few blocks away. They were on the edge of a folding table manned by two teenagers. I asked the kids if all of the produce they were selling was local, and they said everything was but the fruit. Then I saw this sign and asked again to double check. New Jersey grows a lot of blueberries, it’s high season, and something about that hand-scrawled sign made me wonder. Things that make you go hmmm.*

‘I think they’re from south Jersey,’ the girl said. Well, hot diggity—that’s where most of our blueberries are grown. And look at that cheapie price for a pint!

I took them home, washed and stemmed half of them, and ate them for lunch with low-fat Stonyfield vanilla yogurt stirred in. They’re tiny and spicy and remind me of the low-bush blueberries that hail from New England, but the oracle of Google tells me they’re high-bush, the kind New Jersey grows.

That’s it. They were great. 🙂 Happy week!

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I’m a dork; I accidentally took a video of this sign instead of a photo. So I cheated and shot a picture of it right on my PC screen. Nice arrow, huh?

*Apologies to those too young to remember the 1991 hit by C+C Music Factory. You aren’t really missing anything.

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