I have wanted to tell you about this pie for a couple weeks now, but I keep hesitating. See, this post isn’t supposed to be about nectarine pie. It’s supposed to be about peach pie. Yes, yes, of course there’s a backstory…

I don’t like peach pie. I think they are bland, slightly slimy, and sickly sweet. But I am convinced there should be a good peach pie recipe out there, somewhere. Peaches just feel like they were made for pie. So I keep trying and I keep getting disappointed and I keep signing off peach pie for good this time (!) because there is no such thing as a good peach pie, so there.

But then I spied this recipe for peach bourbon pie and I thought, “This one? Just maybe….?” (It’s a curse, I tell you, a curse.) Problem was, I didn’t have any peaches left. Only nectarines. So I made the pie with nectarines and it was fab. And then I made it again with nectarines and it was still fab. And then I was like, But maybe this peach pie is so good because it doesn’t have any peaches in it? So I contemplated buying peaches from the grocery store (I know! Gross!), and I even went as far as to stroke the fuzzy balls that Costco placed under a sign that read “peaches,” but those things looked about as tasty as engorged tennis balls. There was no way my peach pie experiment would stand a chance with fruit that hard.

And that’s where I am in the peach pie saga: with not a single winning peach pie in sight. However, I do have a kick-butt nectarine pie and it just might work for peaches. Next year, I’ll make it with peaches. If it works, I’ll amend the title to say “peach (or nectarine) bourbon pie.” Until then, the jury is out. But if you happen to have non-tennis ball peaches on hand, do give it a go and let me know the verdict, ‘kay?

Nectarine Bourbon Pie 
Adapted from Food For My Family.

One note about the cornmeal topping: it’s pretty soft right after making it, so I put it in the fridge to harden. When I’m ready to top the pie, I turn the mixture out on a cutting board and chop it up with a knife. This way I get nice pebbly crumbles.

About the filling: the macerated nectarines tasted so delicious, prebaking, that I followed this recipe (minus the tapioca and with less sugar) when preparing fresh nectarines to eat with French yogurt cake. Try it!

½ recipe rich pastry
6 cups sliced nectarines (no need to peel them)
½ cup brown sugar
2 tablespoons minute tapioca
2 tablespoons bourbon
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 recipe cornmeal streusel topping

Toss together the nectarines, sugar, tapioca, bourbon, lemon juice, and vanilla. Set aside for 30-60 minutes, giving it a stir every now and then.

Line a 9 (or 10)-inch pie plate with the pastry. Fill with the fruit. Top with the cornmeal crumbs.

Bake the pie at 375 degrees on the lowest oven rack for about 20-30 minutes, or until the juices start to bubble. Then move the pie up to the second rack, and lay a big piece of foil (or a large baking pan) on the bottom rack to catch the drips. (It’s important that you don’t block the heat at the very beginning of the baking time so that the bottom crust gets sufficiently brown.) Once the pie is golden brown and bubbling like mad, it’s done.

Delicious fact: this pie is not hopelessly runny when served warm.

PS. Have you ever wondered what my children think about all our gardening? Well, you’re in luck. My older son wrote a guest post for Mavis on just that very thing. Read all about it here!

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (9.16.13), goodbye summer, hello fall, and Greek pasta salad.

Prancing Piggies

The peace part of War and Peace.

Oh, nuts.

This same time, years previous: 2014 garden stats and notes, the good things that happen, chile cobanero, ketchup, two ways, making my children jump, cinnamon sugar breadsticks, September studies, whole wheat jammies, coffee fix ice cream, ricotta, and me and mine.    

As you already know, I’m writing a book. This sounds much more straightforward and easy than it is.

Writing a book is actually more like deciding to enter a wicked-hard race even though you’ve never run a race before. But everyone tells you you can do it—No sweat, really, they shout cheerfully from their comfy easy chairs—and they keep insisting that you can absolutely do it, for crying out loud, until you actually start to believe them, partly because you think it might be fun to run a race and partly out of curiosity—could you actually do something that difficult?—and partly because you have a sneaking suspicion that you might be more amazing than you think.

So you take a couple deep bracing breaths, do some athletic-looking leg lunges, and start running. But something doesn’t feel right, and that’s when you look down and realize that you don’t have feet. Oh crap, no feet. So you start crawling—the race is happening, you can’t quit now—but the pavement hurts your knees and gravel gets stuck in the palms of your hands and you can’t really see where you’re going and that’s when it dawns on you that this is absolutely not invigorating. It’s demoralizing and utterly wretched and how long is this race supposed to be anyway? And what if you don’t actually have what it takes to run the race?

As you gimp along, half in the ditch, half out, ruing the stupid day you let your stupid ego talk you into this stupid race, a fancy electric car purrs by, followed by a ragey, big-ass pick-up truck and you choke on their dust and fumes and your eyes water and you start to wonder what’s the point of running anyway when there are so many faster ways to get somewhere. And that’s when you notice that there are no other runners in this race. It’s just you, by yourself, and suddenly you feel sad and pathetic but also just a teeny bit noble for doing something that no one else can see because maybe you are a little bit awesome anyway? Even if you don’t have feet?

And then you look behind you and see tracks. Not sneaker tracks, because obviously, but snakey tracks. They’re swervey and smooshy-looking and dishearteningly indecisive, but they’re yours and you’re like, Cool, I actually moved. And then you’re like, Well heck, inching along isn’t so bad as long as I can take however many breaks I need.

And then you notice that you smell honeysuckle and the breeze feels tingly-cool and that mist over yonder ridge—the ridge you can see when you peer under your left armpit (you’re crawling, remember)—is so ethereal that it almost convinces you that magic really does exist. And then you realize that as long as you don’t look straight ahead—and if you cover your eyes and hold your breath when the cars whiz by—this going-somewhere-slow-all-by-your-lonesome deal isn’t actually all that bad. Gives you something to do and all…

That’s what writing a book is like.

This same time, years previous: retreating, 2012 garden stats and notes, blasted cake, the best parts, whooooosh, lemon-butter pasta with spaghetti. on being green, hot chocolate, and Indian chicken.