There exist few greater pleasures than cooking with my son. He who has completed culinary school requested a lesson in pie baking -- he specialized in all things savory, so there is still a sliver of wisdom to be gained from his mother!
He insisted on peaches. (He of Let's Only Use In-Season Ingredients said: they're in season in Chile.) Imagine my amazement when we found some ripe peaches at Whole Foods for way less than the price of gold. In February. In Seattle. Well then.
And now the kitchen air is glazed in a simmering sweet cinnamon haze.
He was concerned that his pie, before baking, was less than beautiful, and I told him that I believe that never in the history of pie-dom has anyone said, "This pie is ugly. I will not eat it." I told him that a pie is a rustic thing, that by its nature is can be ziggy or zaggy. A pie is always beautiful. One can cut rough strips of dough and haphazardly strew them across sliced apples or sugared berries, and nearly every citizen of the planet will sigh and moan in surrendered joy. (I say nearly because I happen to know a poet who doesn't like pie. He's a good poet, a good man, a good friend, but he is flawed, nonetheless.)
(We made French onion soup with duck stock also, but that's for another blog entry.)