Read Online The Joyce Maynard Collection by Joyce Maynard - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joyce Maynard
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important.
One tool he wished he had, for making this crust, was his grandmotherâs pastry blender. You could pick one up anyplaceâwe werenât speaking of fancy gourmet shops, just a regular supermarketâbut his gramâs had this wooden handle, painted green.
First you put the shortening in the bowl with the flour and salt. Then you cut it in, using your pastry blender, he said, though in an emergency (which was what we had on our hands, evidently) a couple of forks would do.
And about your shortening, he said. He had a few things to tell me about that. Some people use butter, for the superior flavor. Then again, nothing beats lard for contributing flakiness. This is one of the great controversies of piecrust, Henry, he said. All your life youâll meet people of the two persuasions, and you may have about as much luck convincing the one to come over to the other side as a Democrat talking to a Republican, or vice versa.
So which did he use? I asked. Lard or butter? Amazingly, we had lard in our pantryâthough not real lard, as Frank would have preferred, but Crisco, from one time when my mother got it into her head to make potato chips and do some deep fat frying. We got about ten chips out of the deal, before she got tired and went to bed. Lucky for us now, the blue tin still sat on our shelf. Assuming Frank was not, as he might be, of the butter-crust persuasion.
I favor both, he said, sweeping the spatula through the glossy white Crisco and dropping a dollop in the center of the bowl with the flour. The butter was important too, however, so he sent me over to the neighborsâ to borrow some. This was not the kind of thing my mother and I had ever done before. Doing thisâthough I was shy to askâgave me a nice feeling, as if I was a character on some TV show from the olden days, where the characters were always dropping in on each other and doing fun things together. Like we were all normal people here.
When I came back with the butter, Frank cut up most of a stick of it into small pieces and scattered those over the flour too. No measuring with either of these ingredients, naturally, but when I asked him how much he used, he shook his head.
Itâs all about instinct, Henry, he said. Pay too much attention to recipes, you lose the ability to simply feel, on your nerve endings, whatâs needed at the time. This was also true of people who analyzed Nolan Ryanâs fastball motion, or gardeners who spent all their time reading books about the best method for growing tomatoes, instead of just going out and getting dirt under their fingernails.
Your mother could probably say something about this, as it relates to the world of dancing, he said. And some other areas too, that we wonât go into now.
He shot her a look then. Their eyes met. She did not look away.
One thing he would tell me, though, he said, had to do with babies. Not that he was any kind of expert, but for a brief while, long ago, he had cared for his son, and that experience more than any other had taught him the importance of following your instincts. Tuning in to the situation with all your five senses, and your body, not your brain. A baby cries in the night, and you go to pick him up. Maybe heâs screaming so hard his face is the color of a radish, or heâs gasping for breath, heâs got himself so worked up. What are you going to do, take a book off the shelf, and read what some expert has to say?
You lay your hand against his skin and just rub his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will surround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray.
Sometimes a cool breeze might be just what the doctor ordered. Sometimes a warm hand on the belly. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing is the best. You have to pay attention. Slow things way down. Tune out the rest of the world that really
One tool he wished he had, for making this crust, was his grandmotherâs pastry blender. You could pick one up anyplaceâwe werenât speaking of fancy gourmet shops, just a regular supermarketâbut his gramâs had this wooden handle, painted green.
First you put the shortening in the bowl with the flour and salt. Then you cut it in, using your pastry blender, he said, though in an emergency (which was what we had on our hands, evidently) a couple of forks would do.
And about your shortening, he said. He had a few things to tell me about that. Some people use butter, for the superior flavor. Then again, nothing beats lard for contributing flakiness. This is one of the great controversies of piecrust, Henry, he said. All your life youâll meet people of the two persuasions, and you may have about as much luck convincing the one to come over to the other side as a Democrat talking to a Republican, or vice versa.
So which did he use? I asked. Lard or butter? Amazingly, we had lard in our pantryâthough not real lard, as Frank would have preferred, but Crisco, from one time when my mother got it into her head to make potato chips and do some deep fat frying. We got about ten chips out of the deal, before she got tired and went to bed. Lucky for us now, the blue tin still sat on our shelf. Assuming Frank was not, as he might be, of the butter-crust persuasion.
I favor both, he said, sweeping the spatula through the glossy white Crisco and dropping a dollop in the center of the bowl with the flour. The butter was important too, however, so he sent me over to the neighborsâ to borrow some. This was not the kind of thing my mother and I had ever done before. Doing thisâthough I was shy to askâgave me a nice feeling, as if I was a character on some TV show from the olden days, where the characters were always dropping in on each other and doing fun things together. Like we were all normal people here.
When I came back with the butter, Frank cut up most of a stick of it into small pieces and scattered those over the flour too. No measuring with either of these ingredients, naturally, but when I asked him how much he used, he shook his head.
Itâs all about instinct, Henry, he said. Pay too much attention to recipes, you lose the ability to simply feel, on your nerve endings, whatâs needed at the time. This was also true of people who analyzed Nolan Ryanâs fastball motion, or gardeners who spent all their time reading books about the best method for growing tomatoes, instead of just going out and getting dirt under their fingernails.
Your mother could probably say something about this, as it relates to the world of dancing, he said. And some other areas too, that we wonât go into now.
He shot her a look then. Their eyes met. She did not look away.
One thing he would tell me, though, he said, had to do with babies. Not that he was any kind of expert, but for a brief while, long ago, he had cared for his son, and that experience more than any other had taught him the importance of following your instincts. Tuning in to the situation with all your five senses, and your body, not your brain. A baby cries in the night, and you go to pick him up. Maybe heâs screaming so hard his face is the color of a radish, or heâs gasping for breath, heâs got himself so worked up. What are you going to do, take a book off the shelf, and read what some expert has to say?
You lay your hand against his skin and just rub his back. Blow into his ear. Press that baby up against your own skin and walk outside with him, where the night air will surround him, and moonlight fall on his face. Whistle, maybe. Dance. Hum. Pray.
Sometimes a cool breeze might be just what the doctor ordered. Sometimes a warm hand on the belly. Sometimes doing absolutely nothing is the best. You have to pay attention. Slow things way down. Tune out the rest of the world that really
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