Crumbling

“I’d really like some pie,” Kelly said to an empty room.

It didn’t matter that it was 2:00a.m., or that there was nothing open. It didn’t even matter that she had never made pie before.

Kelly was a self-starter, and she was going to do it herself.

This was not some hormonal hallucination. It was not an avoidant coping mechanism, given the state of things. No, she simply wanted pie in the middle of the night. Who would blame a girl—or, more accurately, a grown woman?

She started with the crust. The image was clear in her mind: flawless, chiseled, golden dough that crumbled and flaked when pierced with a fork. It wasn’t going to be hard; women have made pies for centuries. The ingredients were simple and already in her pantry: flour, sugar, salt, butter, cold water. All she had to do was follow the recipe.

If only life had a recipe, she thought as she measured the ingredients. Or so few variables.

Kelly combined the dry ingredients and mashed cubes of butter into the mixture. Ice cold water dripped, a tablespoon at a time, to form a shaggy dough. She frowned at the mess in her mixing bowl.

“It’s so ugly.” She poked at the dough. Her finger came away sticky, so she shook more flour into the bowl. She massaged it. It was drier, but still lumpy. She squeezed and shaped the mass until it was smooth and yielded to her grip.

Kelly didn’t own a rolling pin, but an empty wine bottle was the right size and shape. She removed the label and dusted her countertop with flour before pulverizing the bubble of dough.

It was harder than it looked on the internet. She worked up a sweat before folding the flat circle into a pie dish.

“The filling!” she pronounced, reaching for the apples in her fruit bowl. She cut them, piled them in, christened them with sugar and cinnamon, and slid the whole thing into the preheated oven.

While it baked, she watched the clock and waited. That was simple, she giggled. Easy as pie. Once it was done, she’d enjoy her dessert and slip into a dreamless, untroubled sleep.

The oven timer beeped. Kelly opened the door.

Maybe it was the dim oven light, but the dough looked anemic. She reached for the butcher block and cut into her creation. The slice came out cleanly, at least.

Kelly cooled the piece with a puff of breath.

She took a bite.

She chewed. And chewed. And chewed.

She swallowed eventually.

“The dough is SO tough!” she cried, tossing a tea towel to the floor. “What did I do wrong? I followed the directions exactly!”

Tipping the entire pie into the trash, she tried again.

Advice for a perfect pie crust, she keyed into her tablet. There were plenty of people on the internet, ready to offer advice.

Crisco makes the flake easy! Kelly shuddered, aware of the stretching elastic of her sweatpants. “More fat is never the solution.”

The most tender pie crusts are made with vodka. This, she could get behind. Kelly retrieved an icy bottle of vodka from her freezer. She poured a shot and sent it down the hatch. Reading on, it seemed she was meant to add the vodka to the dough.

“Preposterous.” She poured another shot, just in case.

Blind bake. Crazy crust. Pie beans. Pie bird. Roll, don’t fold. Chill. Dock. Crimp.

“What happened to easy as pie?” Kelly wailed. She turned her tablet face-down on the countertop.

Pie crust, she discovered, was a temperamental thing. She would only get it right with practice. It was time to try again.

Kelly lined up the ingredients: flour, sugar, salt, butter, ice water. Her pantry was significantly depleted after the first go-around, so this one would have to stick. There wouldn’t be enough for a full pie, and certainly not another after that.

She measured the ingredients perfectly, just like the last time.

She mixed, then stopped. Don’t overwork it, one of the recipes noted.

Overwork brought her here in the first place. The thick, unyielding pie-dough. The 2 a.m. wine and vodka sessions. Her thoughts and frustrations, crumbling like her longed-for pie crust.

Kelly turned the barely worked dough onto her kitchen countertop and rolled it out. With the diminished ingredients, it yielded a circle just the right size for a Mason jar. A circular glass jar was as good as any other circular glass dish, and she docked the crust.

She put it in the oven and sat on the floor. The cool stainless-steel refrigerator door felt good through the thin slip of her pajamas. She set a timer on her watch and stared at the near-dawn sky through her kitchen window.

The best pie crusts crumbled, but the best people did, too. She might be humbled and crumbling now, but there was sweetness beneath the crust.

The oven timer beeped. Kelly opened the door.

The miniature pie looked tragic in the warm maw of the oven. She grappled with its size; oven mitts were better suited to chafing dishes.

Under the lights of the stovetop, Kelly performed a rigorous inspection of her latest creation. There was a definite improvement in the crust. Instead of an anemic white, it bore a warm, honey colored hue. The crimping left much to be desired, and the filling bubbled over and burnt the bottom of the oven, but she would count that as progress.

She held her knife, poised over the pie, then set it down. Instead, she wrapped the bottom of the Mason jar in a tea towel and returned to the floor, pie propped on her knees.

Kelly pressed her fork into the crust. There was a little resistance, but eventually, it gave. She lifted the fork to her mouth and took a bite.

The crust crumbled beautifully on her tongue.

Sun streamed into the kitchen windows, filtering through the steam rising from her dish.

Kelly laughed. She was having apple pie for breakfast.