PIE

Something I associate closely with American culture is "pie". It is a great generic term for lots of delicious homemade fruit pies encased in golden pastry, and having recently returned from the US it is something I recall with great fondness.

Just a few days ago I was out for a walk along a usual path in my neighbourhood. At one point I decided to take a detour down a less used path that disappeared into an overgrown area of thick woods and bushes. As I fought my way through, feeling like a kid again on an adventure, I suddenly stopped as my eyes beheld a wondrous sight.

Hidden away in this overgrown area was a secret forest of brambles, all drooping with ripe blackberries. I had nothing with me in which to collect them, so the following day I returned with bag in hand. As I approached the thicket I checked over my shoulder to make sure no one had seen me entering what I now declared was my secret stash of blackberries. Gently I eased each individual plump berry from it's stalk, working my way through the expanse of jaggy brambles.

Purple hands stained from the juice of the berries and bulging bag in hand, I returned home and gently washed the gathered fruits. Using a recipe from the internet I then made a batch of gluten-free shortcrust pastry, lined a pie tin and blind baked it in the oven. Once cooled I piled high the blackberries into the pastry case and covered it with another layer of pastry.

Glazed, and dusted in sugar I carefully slid it into the oven. I awaited the result, pacing up and down, as the oven worked its magic. Occasionally I'd peep inside the oven, just to make sure all was going according to plan. Then, finally, the timer went "ping!" Tentatively I slid the tin out of the oven, carrying it slowly to the kitchen table as if it was a bomb about to go off, then just stood and admired its beauty.

It just sat there, cooling, this golden coloured piece of heaven, releasing its heady aroma of mouthwatering deliciousness. I was desperate to cut into it, anxious that it it might not have worked.

Somehow I managed not to touch it until my friend Pauline to return home from work. Patiently I waited until she finished her dinner. Then, finally, the moment of truth. We carefully cut two large slices and made "cor" noises as the dark purple filling revealed itself from inside it's golden, crispy envelope. Several satisfied noises were made as we otherwise silently, and slowly, munched every bite, our taste buds exploding with pleasure. It was all we could do to resist eating it all in one sitting!

There's every need for pie.