Phew! That was quite the three months. Since my last post at the end of March, I have finished teaching, written a first chapter of my dissertation, finished planning a wedding, gotten married, moved house, and honeymooned. Now things are slowly returning to normal. My first official domestic act as a married woman was to bake a strawberry rhubarb pie.
I bought native berries and long, thick stems of rhubarb from the Italian grocery store down the street, and invested a ridiculous amount of butter in what turned out to be my Very Best Pie Crust Ever. (My advice: When Deb says to not blend the butter all the way into the dough, obey her! My butter was frozen when I started which made it impossible for me to *not* follow her instructions. The result was largish pats of butter scattered through the dough which melted away in the oven, leaving delectable golden pockets and layers of crust in their wake.)
Nobody was dissapointed. Not me. Not my philosopher. And not the housemates and unexpected guests who picked the perfect moment to stop by.
The crust was flaky and buttery and melted in our mouths. The filling was the perfect tangle of tart and sweet. If I could only pick one pie to eat for the rest of my life, it would be this one.
p.s. The crust was more golden than the photo lets on, but I think I could have baked the pie even longer than I did. I noticed on the second day that some of the bottom crust seemed par-baked still, though it was nothing a little oven-warming couldn’t remedy.