Monthly Archives: January 2010

Baby don’t you cry, gonna make a pie

For Christmas this year Santa (Mrs S Claus to you) gave me an Emile Henry pie plate. For those of you unfamiliar with fancy-pants pie plates, this plate is the shiz. Mon amie Emile set up shop in 1850 making enamelled ceramic bake-ware. It’s beautiful. It’s chip resistant. Adaptable to extreme temperatures. Basically, it’s a baker’s wet dream. Santa bought me the lovely “Le Grand” 30cm (that’s right baby!) pie dish in blanc. At first I thought about exchanging it for something more flashy, perhaps a cerise or fraicheur, but in the end I decided that the white was traditional and classic. And besides, flashy never calls you back.

This glorious dish has been sitting on my bedroom floor since Christmas, with only the warm, fluffy body of the cat occasionally napping inside its wavy walls. And last week it was time for me to pop this plate’s cherry, or rather apple. Caramel apple.

Now, let me let you in on a secret. I don’t bake pies often. I experience trepidation when it comes to creating a pie crust. It’s a lot of pressure. It needs to be flakey, buttery, crispy but not too crispy, not quite sweet and most certainly not salty. There’s much to be balanced, and I’m the kind of girl that falls down the stairs a lot. Add to that the labour intensive process of cutting cold butter and shortening into flour, and making sure everything is the right temperature, and then rolling it out nicely. Baking, as I’ve often been told, is a chemistry, and I stopped taking science after grade 10 Biology. So as mean a cake I can bake, and as awesome a cookie I create, it’s all magical instinct, and not a lick of science. This horrifies some of my more by-the-book and scientifically inclined baking buddies; their mouths often agape as I guesstimate the amount of sugar to pour in and accidentally throw in an extra egg or five. But, it all works out in the end. For me at least, probably something to do with my weekly blood sacrifices to the Gods of Baking.

Anyway.

So I decided to bake a caramel apple pie. This will be the fourth or perhaps fifth pie of my illustrious baking career? I can’t quite remember. I decide to use the crust recipe from my first ever pie. It’s a Barefat Contessa recipe for a deep dish apple pie. And when Barefat says “deep dish” that chick means it. This pie heaves more than a mermaid nailed to the front of a pirate ship. I made this pie in the heady days of autumn or winter 2007. I baked it to show off my mad housewife skillz to the guy I was smitten with and seeing at the time. The pie filling of that particular pie is a shit tonne of Granny Smith apples, lemon zest and juice, orange zest and juice, nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, and some sugar. It’s a refreshingly tart pie. But one of the best pies I’ve ever made. So jackass tried some of my beautiful heaving pie, and says to me “Sometimes it’s nice when apple pie tastes like apple pie, and not like, you know, other stuff.” So after I ripped out his tongue and punched his teeth out, I asked him to write down what he meant by that ridiculous statement. Basically he meant he doesn’t like lemons. Or oranges. Or spices. Everyone else loved my pie. Even Dave who had only recently heard of an avocado loved my pie. It was a damn good pie. Jackass can suck it.

Right, back to present day. So I’m looking up this recipe on the Food Network’s website and for some ridiculous reason I decide to read the comments. I figured, as this was such an AWESOME pie, there would be a big puddle of praise: “Oh Barefat you win again!” “I ate this pie up like a BOWSS” “It was like a party in my mouth, and everyone was in love!” Or something similar. I mean it’s a great pie, and the internet is all about praise right? Bah hah hah sorry, I went too far with that last sentence.

No my friends, the internet is all about free speech, which as it turns out is all about bitching people out. Which is EXACTLY what I’m about to do. Yay interwebs!

So I present you with some of my favourite comments:

You know what? My boyfriend didn’t like the pie either, but guess what got thrown out? NOT THE PIE. Oh and the crust crumbling all over the place? Yeah, YOUR FAULT! Not the recipe. I dunno what you did, but you did it wrong. Stupid bint.

Too much zest? THROW IT AWAY. Makes sense to me. FACE PALM. ~Insert crude joke about confused husbands and pie~  Can’t get the taste out of your mouth INDEED. Twit.

Incidentally the soft and mushy-ness is YOUR FAULT. Also, I wish your ugly face wasn’t so soft and mushy either. Blockhead.

Oh JoJo, it’s such a shame you threw out $6 worth of apples instead of covering them in 75 cents of COOLWHIP and EXTRA SUGAR, you unpalatable fiscally irresponsible fool!!! Also you suck at ENGLISH.  Dunce.

The moral of the story is my caramel apple pie worked out just how I wanted it to. The crust, stolen from its citrus-infused counter-part, held up beautifully, and the sickly sweet caramel, was sickly sweet, but the Granny Smith’s still tasted like apples. And to all you foolish fools whose palates have been destroyed by too many Ho Ho’s and Passion Flakey’s, don’t, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS BAKED, throw out your “tart” pie, just put some freaking ice cream on it. Was your childhood some how devoid of things NOT coated in sugar? Have you ever just eaten an apple before? Surely you had sourballs and sour keys growing up? But seriously, don’t throw out your pie, just freaking SUCK IT UP.

How’d you like them apples?

Chumps.

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Reason #614 I’m A Girl: Shoes – A Brief History

So I have a problem.

A shoe problem.

I have a lot of shoes.

Too many? Probably.

As a teenager I never really saw myself as girl with a shoe problem. But it turns out I was just delusional. I may not have owned many shoes, but I had a distinct taste in shoes, mainly Spice Girls-esque platform shoes. I slowly graduated from lime green Baby Spice Platforms to more Scary Spice grungy Swear shoes.

Yes, I owned and wore these beauties in the 90’s.

I also owned much less frightening, and at the time “indie cool” (yeah I just used that term… BARF!), Airwalks, you know the ones. On top of those I managed to acquire two pairs of hooker boots one Boxing Day: White and silver Go Go’s and a more sultry, auburn, leather pair.

When my Swear shoes died a horrible death in first year university (I was returning to my dorm after dropping a good friend off at the train station and the sole caught on a cobblestone and ripped off, propelling me face first down the street, it was of course raining) I had to find new shoes, and fast. So I ordered a pair of baby blue lace-up Vans off the interwebs.

It was my first foray into buying crap off the interwebs. Hoo-boy! My discovery of online shoe retailers plus the awesome shoe store in my University town led me down the primrose path of shoes, and I mean that in the excessively luxurious sense, not the deceptive trickery sense.

Glorious, glorious shoes!

I am a little quirky with my taste in shoes. So when I fancied up and became a real girl, it’s not too surprising that my affordable yet fancy shoe brand of choice was Irregular Choice. I own a shit tonne of these shoes (see below for SOME examples, that’s right just some). Last time I visited my friends in London I came home with three new pairs, plus a forth non Irregular Choice pair.

So my friends, here are some of my shoes! Wonderful aren’t they?

I admit, I probably have a problem, but come on, these are just too awesome to pass up!

Annnd these wonderful beauties, in spite of my roomie’s well-meaning concern, will be arriving shortly!

Although my love for 4inch heels is great, there are few things better then glamming it up in some pouffy dress with a pair of converse.

A girl’s gotta dance, right?

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