Tag Archives: filling

Sweet Heart Pies

My husband rarely calls me by my given name — a boy’s name my mother decided upon after she heard a woman in a grocery store call her dog.  A big dog.  I’ve always thought it would be a great name for a dog since they’re more like people than animals anyway.  It was going to be Deborah, like so many of the girls born then.  Deborah Ruth, I think, after my mother’s mother.

No, my husband has instead come up with quite a few other loving endearments over the years I’ve been happily attached to him, but none of them come close to sounding like Kelly.  I’ve tried to remember the first one, but getting caught up in the order of it all misses the point:  that I’m deserving of these little jewels of lovey-doveyness from him.

I could have a completely different attitude about them, mind you.  Someone who looked a gift horse in the mouth instead of considering the lovely source that my husband is.

These little somethings usually come with a smile or tone that suggests nothing too important will follow.  He’s just getting my attention.  Sometimes they appear on the cards he gives me instead of the giant heart with a capital “K” filling the inside.  Other times, they appear as greetings in occasional emails sent, reminding me of something I said I’d take care of because he knows that I’m easily lost in my day on most days, so might never quite get around to doing whatever it is I said I’d do.

Sweets.  Can you look around for my checkbook?  It’s not in my car. You know, because doesn’t everyone keep it there?

Or arriving home at the end of a long day, he’ll ask,  How was your day, Pear? Yes, he always asks, and then when I forget to ask about his, he continues to tell me what it was like.  I need better manners.

More recently, I have been Pear Petunia when he’s lounging in his chair on the weekend and caught up in a football-soccer-basketball-hockey game or two on television.  He absent-mindedly extends a hand for me to grasp in passing and squeeze once or twice.  I seize the opportunity to remind him that Petunia was a pig and that being shaped like a pear isn’t exactly ideal, but being a pear-shaped cartoon pig is a bit much.  We laugh.

He’ll disagree, but I think it all started with Pie.  Yes, he called me Pie all those years ago, and I know I’m in good company when it comes to this because pie is always good, isn’t it?  Especially when the crust is oh, so flaky and the filling a perfect combination of tart and sweet.

And so I made him little fruit pies the other day with blueberries and sugar plums I’d frozen.

He liked them with or without the powdered sugar, but you decide.

Perfect as Pie.

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Cornish Pasties

Suffice to say that my plans to get several posts written and queued up before we leave on vacation this Sunday never materialized.  Close, but no cigar. Living in a hobbling, semi-ambulatory state for the last five days put me in my place more than once, and I found myself thinking, Really?  Do I really need to write one more recipe?  Or should I focus on getting this knee better so I can actually walk?

Of course I need to write.  Just one more.

One.

The last minute shopping has been done, the house is relatively clean, tickets, shuttles, and reservations are in order.  Maps, check.  Routes, check.  Super-strength enormous bandaids for my feet, check.  Nine months of obsessive planning, check. It looks like we’re ready for our trip to the UK.

We’ll be in London for four days, then drive through Kent, and East and West Sussex, staying a couple of nights along the way, cutting up toward Oxford and then the countryside near Worcester where we’ll stay three days.  The last portion of our stay will see us in York, then Cambridge and Essex before we drive back to Heathrow and our trip home.  It promises to be a wild two weeks, and like the last time, I’m sure at least one intelligent Brit will say, “Why are you Americans always in such a hurry?  You can’t really see the UK in less than a month.”  And we know they’re right, of course, but who can afford it?  Who can stay away from work that long?

Not us.

If we had the time and resources, we’d have made it to Cumbria near the Scottish border to enjoy the beautiful Lake District along the way.  And we’d definitely would have made time for a drive through Dorset to Dartmoor and Plymouth, where one of my great-grandfathers boarded an old sailing ship to journey through the Straits of Magellan to Sebastapol, California more than a century ago.

There will always be another time for Cornwall, with its craggy coastline and Arthurian legends, but I couldn’t wait for that time to try an authentic Cornish Pasty.

Is it authentic if it’s made by someone from Southern California who’s had sound Cornish advice?

Who cares if they’re as delicious as these.

Seriously.

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