Apple Pie

My elderly relatives came to visit my parental units, in whose sewing room I now abide thanks to a small Kenyan's fiscal policies destroying all hope. The relatives in question are both old and frail, being slightly older than my own parents. I remember them when they were younger, my current age, and loud and pompous, being raised in Orange County back when it was the bastion of Walt Disney and the Beach Boys and Ronald McDonald. They got to enjoy the peace and prosperity of Postwar America before it was ruined by the Baby Boomers.

My folks, knowing Dad's brother was coming, directed me to prepare a cheese plate. I was artistic. I'd already put champagne (Brut. How decadent at $4.50/btl!) in the fridge a couple days before so that was handled. Crackers on another plate. Some greek olives in the middle of the cheeses. Skip the veggies nobody eats. Prawns and sauce from the grocery store, still frozen but at least they were cooked and deveined.

The two parentals made an apple pie. I will not admit to helping much because I didn't. I hate making pie crust. I've got 37 years of cooking experience (including pies) and I still hate it. The balance requirements for the flour, moisture, and oil and then the sticky outcome and dealing with waxed paper are miserable to me. If I ever remarry my wife will have to be expert at pie crust because I hate dealing with it. Mom got some oil crust together, despite her own struggles with ingredients running out, etc. Dad managed the apples, possessing one of those amazing antique (thus it actually works) automatic peeler-slicers which operates by hand crank. They used the right apples. They didn't sugar it too much. I managed the baking and coated the top with cinnamon sugar, something I prepare in bulk and keep for various needs. I gave the pie another 5 minutes more than required so the crust was golden brown. All baked goods deserve a slight healthy tan.

It was heavenly. Just the right balance of sugar, the tartness of granny smith apples, the faint but not overwhelming flavors of cinnamon and cloves. No goo because the apples don't cook down, just soften.

Between the pie baking and the pie eating, there were cheeses and shrimps and the aforementioned Brut Champagne, then I chaufferred them all in my car to the local Italian restaurant for dinner. I should note that every town, no matter where in America above a minimum size, has a Chinese restaurant and an Italian restaurant. And unfortunate town also has a Mexican restaurant. Chinese food is something different and makes good takeout, usually operated by the local asian or mexican, in maximum cynicism by all parties and loaded with MSG. MSG isn't as bad for you as you think. Not compared to the aspirin you thoughtlessly consume, or the fake sugar in your diet cola. Those are real horrors of modern living. And that's saying nothing of being downstream of women on birth control pills, since those DON'T process out of water anymore than Ritalin or happy pills for the elderly. Small wonder the East Bay is nuts. Their water is massively contaminated. Anyway, towns get an Italian place because people can vary the clothing and go from family restaurant to date-night at the same place, and tips for italian waiters are much higher, and they serve wine with a nice high markup and the preps of the food, being higher in labor, also result in lower material costs and higher prices. This makes them profitable so they stick around. If you wanted to own a restaurant, that's the kind to own. If you wanted to invest in one, that's the kind to invest in. Just make sure there's fat bonuses for the managers and head chef so they're financially motivated to keep the patrons coming in.

The local Italian joint is in the old part of town, and their parking lot is on a narrow one-way street tucked into a courtyard that used to stable horses. I found good parking and we had a nice time. The parents split meatloaf. The uncle and aunt split a lasagne. I had chicken Marsala, which was tasty and I found a recipe to make it, including the additions I tasted in my sauce, which included cream, sugar, and possibly a hint of maple syrup of all things. I haven't had marsala wine so it might be from that. The chicken was nicely tenderized too, tasted like Butterball solution. This dish would work even better with turkey, btw. The mushroom and wine flavors and fats would help many game meats to be delicious. It should be bird though. Might be able to work this trick on pork or veal or venison however. The tenderization trick will need to be properly applied, possibly with ground papaya seeds. My dish also included garlic mashed potatoes, which is NOT traditional but excellent companion to the mushrooms and steamed veggies. I really enjoyed it and have leftovers for later today.

My feelings about cooking are kinda like being in a Hong Kong Martial Arts picture. I've been learning and mastering cooking since I was 4 years old. Its a lifelong thing, so intrinsic to myself I don't even think about it like a hobby. Its a big part of me. My former coworkers doubted this, as most of them were not competent people at living, most living with their parents or overly specialized or reliant on a spouse or future spouse or parent to do all their cooking. I'm not Asian so some of the gaps between our cultures are huge. Perhaps they just don't talk about it. Whatever the reason, I rarely witnessed any of my coworkers bringing in food that was hand-made. Mostly they brought fast food or leftovers from restaurants. Perhaps eating junk restaurant food was their dream? They certainly seemed to spend the bulk of their paychecks on that and Smartphone data plans. And trips to Vegas, apparently. Vegas is not for me. I would go there if I were on the way to the Sky Islands north of town. Those interest me, but I've got the whole Sierras for that so its not actually that important. Someday I'll be cured and I can backpack the Pacific Crest Trail to celebrate.

After the feasting, the skies cleared and half a moon stared down. There was a cold wind and I'm glad I retrieved my winter coat and my undershirts. This morning, we have heavy gusting winds, rain, and snow levels are just a mile up the hill, and maybe 500-1000 feet up. Its a proper winter storm. Exactly the sort of thing you prepare for with hearty foods. And pie.