The Apple Pie

I am posting this recipe, which has been modified from the original, so that I don't forget it. A picture will probably appear later. This is the pie I've been making with the rest of the Mu Alphas' apple crop, then distributing to various male friends. (Baking makes me happy, and eating makes them happy, so you know, it works out for all of us...)

Crust
3/4 c. unbleached white flour
1/2 c. whole wheat flour
2 t. sugar
1/2 c. cold butter
1 T. white vinegar
3-4 T. ice water

Filling
12 medium cooking apples
1/4 c. unbleached white flour
1/3 c. sugar
1 t. cinnamon
1/4 t. nutmeg
1/8 t. allspice
1/8 t. ground cloves

Topping
3/4 c. unbleached white flour
1/2 c. quick oats
1/2 c. packed brown sugar
1/2 c. cold butter

1) For crust, stir together dry ingredients. Cut in butter until resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in liquid 1 tablespoon at a time, until comes together in soft ball. Do not overwork! Wrap dough in plastic and chill for at least 1 hour.

2) For filling, slice apples thinly and toss with remaining ingredients to coat. Let sit 5 minutes.

3) For topping, stir together dry ingredients. Cut in butter until crumbly.

4) To assemble, roll out dough on lightly floured surface. Place in sprayed/greased pie plate (I like glass plates myself). Pile up filling in the crust. Sprinkle topping over and press gently to hold.

5) Bake in preheated 375 degree oven for approximately 45-60 minutes, until apples are tender and topping golden. Let cool before serving.

Mellifluous Mondays: Bake Me a Poem

I made this apple bread yesterday, as another foray into yeast baking. It turned out quite well, if I do say so myself. (Apples? Of course!)

Weave me a poem of ribbons and strings.
Hatch me a poem of feathers and wings.
Grow me a poem of sunlight and soil.
Paint me a poem of canvas and oil.

Build me a poem of timber and stone.
Dance me a poem of muscle and bone.
Bake me a poem of sugar and cream.
Sing me a poem. I'm ready to dream.

-Eric Ode

SAI Charity Ball

The sink is a very important part of one's beautification. Behold the magic implements: curling iron and hairspray.

Me in my room beforehand. Daniella and I got ready together in Whitley, then headed over to the dance itself...

...where we were stunningly beautiful together. ;o) It was a lovely dance, with excellent music and food, an elegant atmosphere, and of course some of my Very Favorite People in the Whole Entire World. I've now been up entirely too late, however, and I need to wind down for a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe I'll read some John Dryden. That should have me snoozing soon enough.

Thankful Thursdays: Free Apples

I know it's a day late; Blogger had an outage yesterday. But in any case, here I am, with photographs of yesterday's late-night cooking project. (This is how I amuse myself while sitting desk. Homework? What's that?)

The charitable and disinterested Mu Alphas gave me two huge bags of apples from the tree in their backyard. (Maybe not so disinterested, as they've since benefited from the pies and cakes I have baked using their gift...but we must assume the best.)

Peel, core, slice. Repeat.

After a little cooking, they grew softer...and started to smell really good. The cinnamon, nutmeg, and honey I added doubtless helped with the aroma.

Then they got mushy! This is one of the only times you actually want food to disintegrate.

With a lot of simmering and smashing, those ugly (sorry guys, you don't grow very attractive fruit) apples produced some top-notch applesauce! I'm planning to bake apple-cinnamon bread this weekend, and I still have enough for another pie and maybe more sauce. I'm reveling in the abundance of fresh fruit, and the best part is that I don't have to eat all of this myself: college campuses cause food to vanish almost immediately.

Mellifluous Mondays: Keats on Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.