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On rare occasions, my wife, a skilled baker, will make a scratch pie crust with unhydrogenated leaf lard instead of butter. It is Beyond delicious. Today is one of those occasions.
Mostly because 2020 has been a year in which... to hell with it, lard-pie.
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Mostly because 2020 has been a year in which... to hell with it, lard-pie.
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Lard is easy to find. Unhydrogenated leaf lard is harder; it makes a difference in the crust but I can& #39;t remember why. Regardless, I brought this particular tub back from the bakehouse store @zingermans last time I was in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Months and months and months ago.
I& #39;ve been staring at the lard in the fridge, not knowing when she would make this pie, since. It just sits in the back, near the hummus I keep forgetting we have, and taunts me. Every time I reach for a drink or yogurt or whatever, boom, a memory of disturbingly good pie.
Literal Pavlov drooling. I have seen it after a particularly rough or long day and had my mouth water.
(That hummus, on the other hand, we should really throw out. But I feel like it& #39;s my friend now. I get attached.)
(That hummus, on the other hand, we should really throw out. But I feel like it& #39;s my friend now. I get attached.)
Now, you may be asking yourslf, "Why the hell didn& #39;t Sam just get off his ass and make himself a pie?"
We have this unspoken agreement where I don& #39;t bake. Don& #39;t ask me why, but it always ends badly. Blood or the power goes out or an open bag of flour ends up all over the floor.
We have this unspoken agreement where I don& #39;t bake. Don& #39;t ask me why, but it always ends badly. Blood or the power goes out or an open bag of flour ends up all over the floor.
This is not some kind of generic "yo bro dudes can& #39;t haha kitchen haha" 20th-century joke. It& #39;s more just an illustration of the unique blend that is my personality. Why I can be trusted with a exploded engine or someone& #39;s million-dollar race car but not, say, a bag of flour.
As Whitman said, I contain multitudes. But that& #39;s not the point.
The point is, she decided to make the pie. I was and am beyond thrilled. (You ever had a non-hydro leaf-lard apple pie by a skilled baker who knows what they& #39;re doing? It& #39;s the shit.)
And then.
The point is, she decided to make the pie. I was and am beyond thrilled. (You ever had a non-hydro leaf-lard apple pie by a skilled baker who knows what they& #39;re doing? It& #39;s the shit.)
And then.
Five minutes ago, she came into my office, holding the tub of lard. Held it out in front of me. "Can you get this open? My hands are wet."
The lid was one of those things where you get two millimeters to grab/cut yourself on the plastic, and it really doesn& #39;t want to open.
The lid was one of those things where you get two millimeters to grab/cut yourself on the plastic, and it really doesn& #39;t want to open.
"Of course," I said.
I opened the lard. I looked at it. It was weird and white and gooey and flakey and great all at once.
I sat there, at my desk, and made noises at this pile of fat, sticking my nose into the tub. She rolled her eyes. She waved the tub top at me.
I opened the lard. I looked at it. It was weird and white and gooey and flakey and great all at once.
I sat there, at my desk, and made noises at this pile of fat, sticking my nose into the tub. She rolled her eyes. She waved the tub top at me.
There was lard on the tub top.
Small flakes of lard.
One fell onto my desk.
Small flakes of lard.
One fell onto my desk.
I looked at her, upset.
"My desk has pork fat on it now."
She looked at me, incredulous.
"This is a problem?"
I was moderately put off by this and couldn& #39;t explain why. "Of course it is. Who wants porkfat on their desk?"
"My desk has pork fat on it now."
She looked at me, incredulous.
"This is a problem?"
I was moderately put off by this and couldn& #39;t explain why. "Of course it is. Who wants porkfat on their desk?"
I wiped up the lard with a finger, looked at it. She walked off. I held it there for a second, then the phone rang. I picked it up with my other hand, holding the lard away from it, and answered it.
As I talked to the person on the line, I developed an itch on my neck.
As I talked to the person on the line, I developed an itch on my neck.
A cut, from shaving. We all get shaving cuts, right?
I scratched it. It stopped itching. Open cut, not yet healed. I held the phone up. I got into the phone call, started talking, gestured with hands. You know, whatever Sams do when they phone.
It began to itch again.
I scratched it. It stopped itching. Open cut, not yet healed. I held the phone up. I got into the phone call, started talking, gestured with hands. You know, whatever Sams do when they phone.
It began to itch again.
I scratched it, this time with the other hand. Lard hand. With *lard finger*, actually.
Lard got into the cut.
I took a moment to realize what I had done.
Lard got into the cut.
I took a moment to realize what I had done.
Disgusting. A knee-jerk reaction of, Ew. Who, I thought, wants lard in a cut? It GOT IN MY BODY. LARD IN MY BODY EW THAT IS JUST oh wait I& #39;m about to eat like four slices of this pie in an hour and then die of a sugarporkfat coma you are being silly chill, dude, it& #39;s some fat
I sat back. I was happy. I felt very Simba Circle of Life.
I took a moment to reflect.
I took a moment to reflect.
This entire year has been brief moments of great punctuated by various shades of awful. I won& #39;t bore you with the reasons why, but suffice it to say that the highlight was when my mom died this spring, after long illness and relatively young, and we didn& #39;t get to have a funeral.
She adored her family, and pancakes, and pie. She also found a bunch of extremely nerdy shit just funny as hell.
I wiped lard into my veins. What a strange year it has been, that this feels like a win.
I wiped lard into my veins. What a strange year it has been, that this feels like a win.
2020, you are not going to win. Even if it& #39;s just a pie, it& #39;s my pie, dammit. I am pie. I have become porkfat.
This is going to end. I will move into the next year while spitting on the grave of this one.
This is going to end. I will move into the next year while spitting on the grave of this one.
We& #39;ll all have this universal and yet drawn-out moment where we over a series of weeks and months come out of our caves blinking back the daylight, and there will be more pie than we can stand.
I think I& #39;m going to learn how to make a damn pie for that one, too.
I think I& #39;m going to learn how to make a damn pie for that one, too.
We should all make pie.
Take a moment to enjoy it. Bathe in the pie. Build a swimming pool of pie and dive in. Rub the pie all over your damn face if you have to. Whatever it takes.
This is going to end, one day.
I am looking forward to it.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.
Take a moment to enjoy it. Bathe in the pie. Build a swimming pool of pie and dive in. Rub the pie all over your damn face if you have to. Whatever it takes.
This is going to end, one day.
I am looking forward to it.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.
