Yesterday was a perfect spring day. The kind of day that inspires art. I wrote a post that attempted to convey the splendour of the beautiful afternoon. But I realized that everything I wanted to say was penned by the Romantic poets, depicted by Van Gogh or Monet, and conjured by Vivaldi and Dvorak. At the end I decided that the best I could offer was a berry pie; a juicy, sweet-tart very berry pie.
I was excited about my assignment; an edible tribute to Spring. I put the post away for later, to be continued after I completed the the pie. No pre-made pie crust for this offering, I needed to make the dough from scratch. I regard pie crusts as the final frontier in baking, I haven't found a dough yet. I settled on a Martha version, hoping for better results this time.
Skip forward through swathes of lush green grass dotted with tiny bright yellow buds. Bright spring sun fades into a crisp night. I reviewed a few recipes on the internet, and came up with a plan. I imagined the pie while relaxing in bed and watching TV before going to sleep.
Gray, overcast chilly morning. The dough is crumby. My flinging over spring draft is missing. I meet up with Daz at the diner and the conversation is on the somber side (yet, no less interesting). Think about how it's just as well that I lost yesterday's flowery post draft. Keats does it so much better.
The berries are plump and juicy and deeply colored. I use a combined 6 cups of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries, add in juice from half a lemon, half a cup of sugar, the scrapings of one vanilla bean and some flour to absorb the berry juice. I gracelessy graft the dough together and piece up a lattice crust. After baking it in a preheated 375F oven for about 50 minutes the aroma is good, and the berry center is inviting. I'm not sure it's a glorious tribute to Spring, but it'll be a nice ending to tonight's dinner.