Please tell me that you haven’t made the pies for Thanksgiving yet? Please, please tell me you have a bag or two of unclaimed cranberries hunkered down in your freezer? Please, please, please tell me you’re in the mood to make a pie today, right now, immediately, at this very minute?

Because, honey sugar, it’s what I have on my agenda, for you.

[Ahem, cough-cough, much pompous throat clearing]

I hereby merrily (and joyfully and happily and ecstatically) proclaim the great news of November 23, 2011: I have discovered the new bestest ever pie in the world and it’s totally perfect for Thanksgiving dinner or Christmas dinner or New Year’s dinner or Three Kings Day or winter solstice day or the first big snow day or Sunday dinner or Monday dinner.

It’s perfect, and it’s perfect for whenever, is what I’m trying to say.

For quite some time, I’ve been on the lookout for a cranberry pie. I’d tried some mixed fruit cranberry pies, and while they were good—cranberries make everything good—they weren’t pure cranberry. And then Aimee posted a cranberry pie and I got down to business lickety-split.

One bite and I was bowled over. It’s potent, unlike normal pies. In fact, it’s so dark and rich and strong that one small sliver carries you over the moon and back, no problem.

Cranberry Pie with Cornmeal Streusel Topping
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites

Aimee calls this a cranberry-orange pie, and while the pie contains both orange juice and zest, I found their flavors to play more of a supportive (but delicious) role, so I dropped the “orange” in the title. To me, this pie is all about the cranberry.

I used frozen cranberries instead of fresh, increased the amount to a generous 4 ½ cups instead of 4, used light brown sugar instead of Turbinado, and added one tablespoon of tapioca as thickener just in case. Not a hitch in sight anywhere.

This pie is best eaten the same day it is made.

1 unbaked 9-inch pie crust (I used this one)
4-5 cups cranberries, fresh or frozen
1 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter, melted
zest of two oranges
juice of one orange (it looked like a lot—close to ½ cup, perhaps)
1 gently rounded tablespoon granulated tapioca

for the streusel topping:
½ cup flour
½ cup brown sugar
1/3 cup cornmeal
½ cup salted butter, cut in chunks

In a large bowl, toss together the cranberries, sugar, butter, orange zest and juice, and tapioca. Pour into the unbaked pie shell.

Measure all the streusel ingredients into the canister of a food processor and pulse to combine (it took quite a few pulses). (Or, rub together with your fingers. That will work too.) Sprinkle the crumbs over the top of the pie.

Bake the pie* at 375 degrees for 40-50 minutes, or until golden brown all over and the juices are bubbling madly.
           
Serve with vanilla ice cream.

*Important Pie Baking Note: Place the pie on the bottom rack of a very hot oven (about 425 degrees) and bake for 15 or 20 minutes or until the pie juices are starting to bubble. At that point, set the pie on a foil-lined baking sheet (to catch the juicy drips) and reduce the temperature to 350 degrees. This extra step helps to ensure a golden brown bottom crust.

This same time, years previous: apple rum cake (oh goodness, I want this NOW)

I’m feeling chatty. Like I just want to curl up with my computer and talk, you know? Not about some preordained topic or event, not about a recipe, not about anything, really. Just random stuff, whatever falls from my fingertips.

It’s a dreary, rainy, foggy, dark day. I feel kind of sad, kind of excited, kind of peaceful, kind of stressed, and kind of mellow. Most days, one particular feeling rises to the surface and beats all the others into submission, but not today.

I’ve been rather bored lately. (Yes, I do realize I was just complaining about being super busy. But you can be super busy and still bored, did you know that?) Last night, I counted out the many ways in which I am bored to my husband and he burst into tears. Just kidding, about the tears, but I did bore him to sleep. He argued with me for a few minutes about the ridiculousness of everything I was saying and then said, “Isn’t your period coming?” and we both busted up laughing, and then his eyelids drooped and he said, “Can we go to bed now?”

I’ve kind of lost my will to cook. Part of the problem may be that ever since my decade of breast feeding ended, I’ve never been back down to my pre-pregnancy weight. I’ve made some substantial changes (greatly reducing snacks and junk food and trying to get exercise), and even though I feel like I’m not over-eating at all (in fact, it can be depressing how little I’m actually eating), the last few pounds aren’t budging.

Part of me thinks this is fine—I’m still in my normal weight range and I’m certainly not overweight—but another part of me worries I’m on a slippery slope. A pound here, a pound there, a pound of pounds EVERYWHERE.

What makes it all the more confusing is:

a. I never really had a solid grasp on a healthy weight before I started the baby-making marathon
b. my body has changed shape after popping out four humans—how much of that changed shape is inevitable?
c. do I really want to spend years tweaking and fretting and worrying when I’ll end up a little pile of organic matter in just a few more decades?
d. but I certainly want to be healthy
e. and it’d be nice to look attractive, too
f. (I’m not talking about inner beauty here, either. Besides, how can I act all confident and sunshiney if I feel like I look bad?)
g. is it lazy to accept my tummy rolls? Maybe I’m supposed to accept them? Nurture them? (Okay, okay. So that’s going a little too far.)
h. BUT I DON’T WANT TO HAVE TUMMY ROLLS, WAH.

I could go on and on. Like, this is stupid because I am healthy. Or, the women in Nicaragua were all thick around the middle and probably never gave a second thought to that extra padding except to be grateful for it. In fact, the majority of women thicken in the middle, even those that never have children. It’s a part of life, I think. Right?

I could starve myself and run for miles and knock off the pounds, I’m sure. But I don’t want to spend my time and energy that way. Besides, I think I should be allowed to eat when I’m hungry and till I’m full. Isn’t that kind of basic?

Clearly, it’s all about balance and I have none.

This really is relevant to the not-cooking-so-much-anymore issue: it’s not as much fun to cook if you aren’t going to eat it. I’m not that kind of cook.

I’ve kind of decided to ignore the whole quandary right now and cook anyway. I’ll just eat good breakfasts, go for walks when I can, and pass on the nachos (usually) at bedtime … and make a boatload of sweet rolls just because.

I rolled them out after supper and my little boy informed me that the rolled-out dough was the same size as the kitchen floor rug. I never know how to roll out the dough when I make such a huge recipe—dress and roll half the dough and then the other half? or do it all at once and make tire-sized sweet rolls?—but this time I got smart. I rolled it all out at once, dressed it, and then used a pizza cutter to slice it in half. Rolled up in opposite directions, and I had two long sweet rolls ready to slice. Problem solved.

That night, we all clustered around the computer on stools to watch a movie while I baked pan after pan of buttery, cinnamony sweet rolls. Rolls done, we crowded around the table, poured glasses of cold milk, and I let the kids eat till they popped. Because hey, how many times in your life do you get to have fresh-from-the-oven, homemade sweet rolls for a bedtime snack? Exactly.

I had another sweet roll epiphany that night. (I was on a roll.) (Tee-hee, a roll. Get it?) I was running out of glass baking pans, so I greased up one of my bread pans and stacked in a bunch of rolls on their sides. I ended up with a pretty loaf of pull-apart sweet rolls.

The genius of this method is that you can fit a whole lot more rolls in the oven when they’re stacked in loaf pans than when they’re laying flat on their backs in 9 x 13 glass pans, thus greatly speeding up the baking process. Plus, they’re easier to store and reheat. I’m kind of smitten.

(That movie we watched whilst our very pores became infused with the yeasty smell of sweet rolls? The Human Planet. Have you seen this amazing series yet? It’s nearly six hours of gorgeous photography and incredible stories. So far we’ve seen disc one—there are three total—for the ocean part, I kept getting short of breath; for the dessert (I mean DESERT) part, the kids kept jumping up for drinks of water; and for the arctic part, we huddled close to keep warm. I can’t recommend this series highly enough.)

Changing the subject: we’re starting to wonder if our youngest daughter is sleep walking. The other morning when my husband came downstairs at 5:30, all the lights were on and Sweetsie was sound asleep on the sofa. She said she didn’t remember turning the lights on.

My husband found her downstairs this morning at 2 am—same story. He even took a blurry picture to document it.

Her sleeping is getting progressively rockier. After discovering her downstairs this morning, my husband put her in bed with me and took himself off to her abandoned (and very comfortable) bed. Sweetsie tossed and turned, stole my sheets, mumbled Harry Potter curses, and was up at six, begging me to take her downstairs.

Perhaps we should tie her ankle to the bedpost?

Also, she’s found a substitute for her spit rag (note the red rag she’s holding). We might be back to square one.

There’s more to say, but I’d better call it quits. The kids are up and the rain is falling and I need (want?) (no, it’s a need—cranberries are central to my emotional well-being) to bake a pie and prepare for a meeting tonight.

xo,
me

This same time, years previous: pasta with creamy pumpkin sauce (I made this for supper last night – delicious), steel-cut oatmeal

We did, indeed, get to see Hamlet three ways this fall, funfunfun. On Friday, the kids and I hopped into the car and sped down the interstate to the Blackfriars Playhouse, raucously singing along to the songs on my son’s MP3 player (that he piped through the car’s speakers)—Peter, Paul, and Mary, Beethoven’s Wig, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, etc.

We were scheduled to arrive 75 minutes before the show because, not only were we going to watch the show, we were going to usher for it, too. Because—get this!—as new members of the volunteer usher brute squad, we get to see the shows for freeeeeee!

Since my son is 6 years shy of 18, the minimum age for ushers, they are graciously allowing us to usher as a team. Though judging by the size of his shoes (mens 10 ½, yikes) he might look the part a little sooner than is normal.

Notice I did not say “act the part.”

We attended an usher training where we learned about patrolling for photography (which led to an interesting discussion on the ride home about how actors are their art), checking bathrooms, our dress code, putting up seat backs, and handing out programs.

The really good news about this whole arrangement is that we get one comp ticket each time we usher, which means my daughter can come along and watch with us! (Or, we can save up comp tickets and take the whole family.)

Friday was our first time on the job. My son and I were assigned the balcony, and my daughter sat in a corner and knitted while we stood there and tried not to get too bored. Once the show started, I let the kids sit up closer while I stayed back by the door. It was a simple job (thank goodness I didn’t have to approach any patrons about photography usage—confrontations with strangers makes me a wee bit nervous), and we were able to watch the whole show. We are signed up to usher for this week’s closing show of The Importance of Being Ernest, and then there will be A Christmas Carol—I expect we’ll usher for that show more than once in order to get some extra comp tickets saved up, and because it’s the sort of show that we’ll want to see over and over again.

The downside of volunteer ushering is that we don’t get the best seats (though comp ticket holders can reserve any seat in the house, from what I understand), and I’m a big fan of sitting close enough to see the sweat fly. Plus, there’s the fifty-minute drive each way and the late bedtimes.

But there are so many upsides—exposure to theater culture and etiquette, learning to be professionally hospitable and gracious, the incredible shows—that I’m not even about to complain. No, no, quite the contrary—I’m tickled hot pink over our newest adventure.