Yesterday, my son made this pie. My son is a Master of Pies. I hope this may serve him well at unversity when he leaves in a few weeks.
I am posting this gratuitous picture of a pie, as I am wont to do on occasion, because to look at it cheers me up. It was an utterly delicious pie made from the apples I picked on my way home on Friday and Saturday's haul of strawberries from the allotment. The strawberries are continuous cropping from June till the first frost. On Saturday, we picked just over two pounds as we do every few days.
I have never made pastry but the lad seems to have it perfected to a tee. Frankly, I tried once when I was twelve years old and produced something that posed a significant challenge to tooth enamel. I have had a sense of trepidation about making it ever since.
But this pastry is as good as it looks. It yields to the incisors with a crispness that provides one of life's moments to savour. There is a subsequent small hint of sweetness from the crust of sugar that, sprinkled over the top, has melted and re-crystallised into the perfect crunchy coating.
The apples were not really very sharp, so the fruit filling is quite sweet, even without added sugar, and the strawberries add a delicate pinkness and fragrance reminiscent of early-summer morning air. Over the top was poured a sauch of apple juice, strawberry puree with the merest hint of cinammon.
So, I offer you this picture of my pie in the sincere wish that, although you cannot taste it in any physical sense, your imagination and mind's teeth will at least provide you with some of the pleasure it gave me.
