I had noble intentions for my pie-making endeavors this year. I’d make the dough ahead of time, bake the night before, transport my perfect pastries in newly purchased bamboo steamers, and arrive, pulled together and on time—for once—for turkey dinner. Of course, in reality, I did none of these things.
I did wake up at 5:30 this morning, make the dough (poorly), put the pie in the oven only to realize, ten minutes later, that I’d forgotten to add lemon juice to the filling, and put the still-hot pie in a too-flimsy bag to transport it to Penn Station.
The pie predicament: It links our two kitchens this year. Jill baked hers without a pan. I folded mine in half. This Thanksgiving, I’m trying to remind myself that it’s not just the outside that counts. Here’s hoping that all flawed exteriors cover excellent, delicious, and amazing interiors. And if those aren’t any good either, there’s always the wine.