All You Need Is Pie: A Summer Love Story

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In the thick of this animal we call summer, like a beacon of light and hope are these four little words: pie is the answer.

Pie is always the answer.

My children are already bored. The organized, carefully cultivated school year schedule is out, and it’s been replaced with a sunscreen-slathered free-for-all, full of little people who expect to be fed on an hourly basis and whose food group of choice is marshmallows. We’re only a few weeks in, and already they’re claiming in that whiny, the-world-is-ending-and-you-never-really-loved-me-or-you’d-feed-me-otter-pops-for-breakfast voice that we never do anything fun. The letter from their elementary school teacher encouraging consistency with reading and math skills through the summer break glares down at me from the bulletin board I pinned it to in a fit of optimism. Yet another neighborhood party, out-of-town guest, tattle battle to quell, meal to fix, new neighbor to welcome, the list goes on and on and on.

But seriously, people, PIE.

In a season where the “fun” never ends, the gatherings never cease, and we all secretly want to return to the easy life of being 10 years old in our grandmother’s kitchen, pie fixes everything.

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It’s the antidote to screen time addiction; fingers covered in flour can’t scroll through a feed or defeat another evil green pig.

It’s the answer to what’s for breakfast the next morning when the latest family outing took precedence over grocery shopping.

It’s Kinder-prep and continued education since someone has got to count those berries, cut pie crust shapes, read that recipe, measure those ingredients, and divide that whole into fifths.

It’s “happy birthday” and “welcome to the neighborhood” and “I’m sorry I lost my temper over the dishwasher being loaded wrong.”

And, provided you stick with the cream variety, in a pinch it’s the slapstick discipline when you’ve got nothing left. OK, maybe not, but let’s be honest, on the hard days it’s tempting.

Summer pie is meant to be a low-key, whimsical thing, without the pressure attached to a formal holiday pie. Only have a few minutes? Sure! Not jazzed about fluting a crust edge? No problem! Nothing commands culinary respect like an I-don’t-have-time-for-fancy galette deemed “rustic” or “artisan.” It’s the wow factor when you want to shine and the ultimate way to go sloppy with style. If you’re in need of new recipes I highly recommend this crust from The Pioneer Woman as my hands-down favorite.

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I may be a Texan transplant, but I’m still fully aware that the extra heat of an oven can be a serious deal-breaker when it comes to dessert choice. For a fun, hands-on alternative to the traditional that still gets the kids involved, opt for baking crust cookies dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg for a fraction of the normal baking time. Serve alongside a bowl of ice cream, crumble them into yogurt and fruit tossed together as a pie parfait, or pour the mix into popsicle molds for an “icy slice.”

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But I love pie for much more than its problem-solving abilities, because to me pie is dozens of summers spent in the garden with my parents. It’s pulling my first work of art from the oven as a gift for my grandpa. It’s the bravery test with friends of crunching into a stick of raw rhubarb without making the pucker face. It’s watching my four-foot-nine-inch grandmother “follow” the recipe on the back of a cornstarch box to make the lemon meringue birthday dessert no one could duplicate. It’s sweating in a Grand Canyon resort kitchen with friends, rolling crust and brushing egg wash for hundreds of summer travelers. It’s stained fingers from berry picking and pitting cherries for canning and loads of messy, laughing, happy conversations that only happen in a kitchen when you’re covered in flour and living in the moment.

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Pie models the value of a process and softens the need for instant gratification. It offers a chance to be silly and opportunity for heart-to-hearts. It reminds us that work can be fun and meaningful and delicious. It shows that making a mess is OK, and perfection is overrated, that broken crust can be reshaped, re-rolled, and remade. And hopefully, at some future point, all of these tabletop lessons will parallel for my own son and daughter; the daunting job will be worth the effort, being real will be far better than being flawless, and even broken hearts will know they can be remade.

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So the next time I hear my children argue or remember I’ve volunteered dessert for the next neighborhood potluck, I will be breaking out the butter, flour, and rolling pin. I will remember how much I love this wild and unruly tribe and these vacationing months taken at break-neck speed. Some days it may take an extra scoop of vanilla to recall those warm fuzzies, but they will come.  Oh yes, my friends, the answer most definitely is pie.

Molly
Molly is a recent San Antonio transplant, originally hailing from the Idaho tundra and most recently the Washington D.C. metro area. Besides avoiding the giant question mark that is surviving their first Texan summer, she and her husband are doing their best to keep up with two energetic children, a nine-year-old daughter and five-year-old son who alternately drive them crazy and melt their hearts. Molly is a yogi and pastry-turned-clean-eating chef who describes herself as a “creative dabbler.” She spends her days teaching yoga, writing, and photographing healthy recipes, power-lifting, rocking lip-sync battles with her kids, and playing outside. She recently did a front handspring for the first time ever, can’t stop talking about it, and has concluded it couldn’t hurt to leave space for future “professional gymnast” on her life’s resume.