Tea In a Tin Cup Read online

  That evening, for dessert, I cut into the pie and lifted out the slice. I’m sure my yell startled my cat. The same bluish water languished in the bottom of the pie pan.

  Nonplused and angry, I phoned my mom and related my woe. Yes, I was positive I’d added the sugar. I wrote it down. Well, perhaps it was the strawberries. They were juicy by nature. Maybe I needed to add some cornstarch in with the sugar, or at least put some sugar/cornstarch mixture on the bottom of the pie crust before I added the fruit and baked it.

  Good idea. Next week I bought more fruit, followed my recipe, dusted the bottom of my pie crust with a few tablespoons of sugar/cornstarch (I was convinced this was the magic ingredient I needed to make all well), popped the thing into the oven, and prayed.

  I won’t draw it out. The thing had the same bluish water, though not as much, I must agree. The sugar/cornstarch on the bottom of the pie crust must’ve sponged up some of the dreadful stuff.

  I phoned my mom again. We just couldn’t figure it out. I thanked her, and decided to hang up my pie pan. Obviously, my venture into creating this recipe was a failure.

  Fast forward several months… It was one of those weird things that come to you later, when you don’t expect it. The answer to the bluish water dilemma came to me as I was cooking something completely different. I was making a cake or something, opened the cupboard door where I kept my baking ingredients, and reached for the cornstarch. Except I grabbed the baking soda.

  Luckily, I realized it as I set the soda jar on the countertop. But as I returned it to the cupboard and reached for the cornstarch, I stared at the two containers. The ingredients sat side by side, both in squat, ¼ liter glass jars. The kind with the glass lid and wire catch. Both jars had small tags on them to denote the contents, but they were the same size and shape, and both held white powder…

  Of course! Every time I’d made the pie I’d mistaken the baking soda for the cornstarch. Well, that would certainly create the sourness my mom and I had tasted. Baking soda water. Ugh. And it hadn’t done a thing to thicken the berry juices, as cornstarch does.

  Wow, what a revelation! I was ecstatic. I made the pie using the cornstarch and, need I tell you, it turned out perfectly! Amazing what the correct ingredients will do for a recipe.

  Years later I discovered there are recipes for ‘my’ three-berry pie online. I don’t know when they came into being. My first attempt was September 1981.

  Here’s the recipe for the notorious three-berry pie. You can adjust the amount of sugar to suit your taste, of course, but I rather like this quantity. To date, I’ve made this recipe often enough to know it’s foolproof…but make sure you add cornstarch instead of baking soda!

  * * *

  Strawberry, Blueberry, Raspberry Pie

  Pastry for a 9” two-crust pie

  4 cups fresh strawberries, halved

  1 cup fresh blueberries

  1 ½ cups fresh raspberries

  ½ cup + 5 tbsp sugar

  1/3 cup cornstarch

  cinnamon

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 375°F.

  Make or buy two-crust pie pastry.

  In a large bowl, stir together ½ cup and 3 tbsp of the sugar and all the cornstarch. Save 1/3 of this mixture and set aside.

  To the remaining cornstarch/sugar mixture in the bowl, add the berries. Gently toss until the berries are coated. Let the fruit sit for 15 minutes.

  Place bottom crust in a 9” pie pan. Flute the edges of the crust so it stands up. Sprinkle the reserved cornstarch/sugar mixture onto the crust—this helps solidify the berry liquid. Stir the fruit mixture and spoon into the pie shell.

  Roll out second pie dough. Using a cookie cutter, cut +/- dozen “cookies”, the number of “cookies” will depend on the size of the cookie cutter. Place the cut-outs over the top of the berries in a circular shape, creating a top crust. Don’t overlap the “cookies,” just place them side by side. Sprinkle 2 tbsp sugar over the cookies and shake on a dusting of cinnamon.

  Bake at 375°F for 35-40 minutes, or until the pie crust is lightly browned and the filling is bubbly. Cool on wire rack.

  Chapter 15

  He’s Playing My Song

  Like many children, I began taking piano lessons during my grade school years. My teacher lived in the next block down the street. His name was David Earl. He was a retired concert pianist. He took only more advanced students, so his wife taught me for the first few years as I learned the notes on the keyboard, the correct hand position on the keyboard, and elementary pieces of music.

  Their house was very cozy and the living room, where one baby grand piano was situated, always looked pristine. Satin fabrics for the chairs, oil paintings on the wall, a pair of crystal lamps on the fireplace mantle... It looked luxurious.

  When I was ready for more advanced music, Mrs. Earl passed me to her husband. I don’t know what the criteria were for my graduation, but a great feeling of accomplishment filled me the following week. I came in the side door as usual, but instead of going through the kitchen and dining room and into the living room for my lesson, I walked down the steps to the music studio in their finished basement. Down the short hallway—its walls polka dotted in framed concert posters, notices and photos—and I came to the music room. Two huge concert grand pianos practically filled the space, their curved sides snuggling up to each other as though they shared whispered secrets or wanted to luxuriate in its partner’s expressive pianissimo passages.

  For my lessons, Mr. Earl would usually sit on a padded bench across the room, his head leaning against the wall, listening to me play. When I’d hit a wrong note, he’d call out, “E flat, not E”, or whatever the correct note should be. He always amazed me that he knew what the correct note should be out of the dozens I was playing at that moment.

  He started me with the Baroque composers: Handel, Bach, Scarlatti and such. We added the Classic era, and I played sonatas by Mozart and Beethoven. Mr. Earl threw in Romantic era music by composers such as Edward MacDowell and Chopin and Debussy. I played them, but my heart was with the Baroque music, and earlier.

  I finally told Mr. Earl I’d like to concentrate on Baroque music. He was agreeable, so we forsook Beethoven and his friends and I settled down with Handel and his contemporaries.

  Sometimes Mr. Earl would sit at the other piano and play along with me, especially when I began learning a Beethoven concerto (he’d play the orchestra part or second piano part) or he’d demonstrate how something should be played, the musical phrasing I was missing. I loved those times, watching him ‘through’ the two piano lids that were propped open, and hearing the music soaring into the room and surrounding me. He demanded a lot from me and began grooming me to be a concert pianist. I had begun playing the Beethoven concerto by the time I stopped my lessons.

  It wasn’t a personal problem that nudged me into quitting. I was growing more and more fond of the harpsichord and Renaissance music, I felt myself becoming more of a music ‘purist’ and I didn’t want to play the piano. William Byrd and Orlando Gibbons and Thomas Morley didn’t compose for piano. Their music should be played on the harpsichord, as they’d written it.

  I found a harpsichord teacher and took years of lessons from him. Besides a teacher, he was also a musician of great talent, and he performed in concert not only in our area but also in Italy.

  He gave a local program one time at which he wanted food like hors d’oeuvres available during the intermission. I don’t remember now who asked whom, but I volunteered to bake three cheesecakes as part of the festive board offerings.

  He didn’t buy them; I donated them. Why, you ask? Because at that time I had the idea of starting a business. I’d scrapped my tearoom idea years before and was now fixated on baking nothing but cheesecakes. They’d be purchased and carted off, no restaurant required. My company name would be Cheesecake, Of Course!

  My music teacher’s concert would be a great way to publicize my new business. It wasn’t off the ground yet, bu
t I figured pre-opening advertising couldn’t hurt. Get the masses’ taste buds yearning for my cheesecake and once my bakeshop opened, they would flock to it. So I revved up my graphic arts skills and designed business cards and half sheet flyers and had some printed.

  At the time he’d told me about the upcoming concert, I had about a half dozen cheesecake recipes in my repertoire. Fairly basic…but good. I could serve any of them to a president or royalty and not be ashamed. Chocolate cheesecake and a basic standard one were good ones in my notebook, along with the pumpkin and lemon ones. But I wanted some unique flavors—that was the way to build word of mouth advertising and future customers for my bakery.

  So, once again, I was in the kitchen, pencil and sheet of paper, bowls and springform pan and ingredients, ready to create.

  The concert date was close to Christmas. That called for something seasonal and festive. I’d have a basic white cheesecake, but I also figured I should have peppermint for the second cake, and cranberry for the third one.

  The peppermint recipe was easy to create and it turned out fine the first time I made it. The cranberry took a bit of thinking even before I softened the cream cheese. I’d never found a recipe for cranberry cheesecake and I had searched. Oh, I’d seen cranberries as a topping for a white cheesecake, but I wanted the fruit in the cheesecake, incorporated into the batter.

  I made one and was pleased with the outcome. I took it, along with the other two cheesecakes, to the concert. Before going, however, I’d cut the cakes into 1” wide pieces and nestled them in miniature cupcake paper cups. I put the paper cups on three different trays, one flavor cake to a tray.

  It was perfect. Not only did the cheesecakes look elegant and seasonal, but also people could sample the favor(s) they wanted. It was just a taste, and serving the bite-sized chunks made the cake easy to eat with fingers. No plates and forks to balance.

  The cheesecakes were a huge success. There wasn’t a chunk left on any platter. I drove home with images of my cheesecake empire expanding around the globe.

  Cranberry Cheesecake – 9” cake

  ½ cup flour

  ¾ cup sugar

  4 tbsp butter

  1 tsp orange peel

  3 eggs

  3 8-oz packages cream cheese, softened.

  ½ cup sour cream

  1 cup fresh cranberries, chopped

  2 tsp orange rind

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 350°F.

  * * *

  For crust:

  In a small bowl, mix the flour, ¼ cup of the sugar, butter, 1 tsp of orange peel and 1 egg.

  Mix and press dough into the bottom of a 9” springform pan. Dough doesn’t need to extend completely to the edge, as it will expand slightly as it bakes.

  Bake for 12 minutes at 350°F.

  Remove when finished and reduce oven temperature to 275°F

  * * *

  For cheesecake:

  In large bowl, combine cream cheese, 2 eggs, sour cream and ½ cup sugar

  Place the cranberries in a food blender. Chop. Add 1 tsp orange rind.

  Add cranberry/orange rind mixture to filling, Mix well.

  Pour onto baked crust and return to oven. Bake at 275°F for 1 ¼ hours, then turn off oven and leave cake in oven—with door closed—for 1 hour. Remove from oven. Cool on rack for 15-20 minutes, then unlock pan and run a table knife around the edge of the cheesecake. Cool until completely cold.

  * * *

  I never did pursue my cheesecake business, in case you’re wondering (even if you’re not, I’ll tell you…) I could never focus on it. Many other business ideas presented themselves: I wanted to be a mystery novelist, I wanted to be a professional folk singer; I wanted to be a harpsichordist with a Baroque ensemble; I wanted to create funny theme ‘kits’ for birthdays; I wanted to open a camp; I wanted to write radio commercials; I wanted to be a landscape photographer or make multi-media presentations of the sort seen on the PBS program Nature… As you can see, I never did any of those but the novelist. And I’m not certain enough people know about that!

  From Here To There

  Chapter 16

  Inching Away

  Growing up, the first family vacation that I remember was a trip to Florida. This happened during my grade school years. My parents, sister, my great aunt Emma, and I piled into our car, and mom and dad took turns at the wheel, driving us all that distance non-stop.

  I suppose I bugged my parents with the perennial “Are we there yet?” but mom was prepared for the trip. She gave us new coloring books and crayons, we played “I see something” and we spent a long time looking at cars’ license plates as we tried to find all forty-eight states. We probably sang songs, too.

  It was hot in Florida, and we were thirsty and hot after the long drive. This was before air conditioning in cars. My dad stopped at a hamburger stand and we ordered four sodas. The woman at the cash registered said they didn’t have any sodas. My dad asked what they had. She replied “Pop.” We looked puzzled. She said, “Coca Cola.” Dad bought four Coca Colas. That was my introduction to nouns having different names in different places.

  We stayed in a motel in Sarasota, Florida. I don’t recall much about it except that it had a kitchen and mom would make simple meals for us. I don’t think we went out to any restaurants. The motel had a swimming pool, which we used, and of course a minute’s walk away was the ocean. It fascinated me and scared me at the same time.

  When I was in high school, my parents, sister and I vacationed in Jamaica. That was a real adventure.

  We spent our time in Kingston and Ocho Rios. By far our favorite place was Ocho Rios. Each table had an assigned waiter, so we got to know ours fairly well by the end of our trip. His name was Antonio O’Reilly. I kid you not. He said he had an Italian mother and Irish father. I guess so. One evening he took us down to the harbor to see the bananas loaded onto the ships.

  Jamaica was my first encounter with food names from different countries. One day we had a treat. Afternoon tea! We’d been sightseeing nearly all day and had missed our lunch. So we sat outside, at a small table, and luxuriated in the tropical breeze, sunshine and bird song. I ordered biscuits and cheese, thinking I’d get American buttermilk biscuits with slices of cheese. I was quite surprised when the waiter brought me cheese and crackers.

  I thought there’d been a mistake, and I was going to tell him so, but I was nervous. I didn’t want to make a fuss and, besides, I liked crackers. So I sipped my tea and crunched the crackers.

  It wasn’t until years later that I discovered biscuits in the American sense are known as scones in Britain. Well, that is, unless the biscuits are pared with cheese. Then it’s assumed the biscuits will not be scones but American crackers. I get it.

  I don’t know if the Jamaica trip whetted our international travel bug, but some years later we vacationed in Germany, Austria and Switzerland.

  This was the only time I ever came close to experiencing what it must be like to be illiterate. I stared at signs or literature, and automatically tried to read them. I couldn’t. It was frustrating. Add to that my inability to speak or understand the spoken German or French word…

  My mother’s grandparents came over here from Germany. Consequently, my mom heard a lot of German in her house and her grandparents’ house as she grew up. Whenever she and I watched a World War Two movie on television, I’d ask her to translate a German phrase or two, which she did. Or I assumed she did. She could’ve made up something and I was none the wiser.

  We put her German to the test one evening in Germany. We’d arrived in a small town around dinner time. After checking into the hotel—one of those picturesque chalet-styles that’s family owned and run—we asked where we could get dinner. We were directed to a restaurant near the hotel.

  It was exactly as you’ve seen in movies. The restaurant was decorated in what I’d call Bavarian style: exposed wooden ceiling beams, white plaster walls with colorful stencils of stylized flowers near the ceil
ing, and racks of ceramic beer steins. Carved chairs and heavy wooden tables added to the feeling that I’d stepped back in time.

  The place was lively with conversation, but the minute the four of us walked into the room, the entire place instantly got quiet. Every person at every table stared at us. I held my breath, waiting for that proverbial pin to cannon into the silence.

  The waitress took us to a table and settled us with menus. I pretended to read it although I couldn’t understand German, with the exception of ja, danke, and nein, that is. And my movie vocabulary of vorderer torpedo, aufwachen, schwein hund, and achtung wasn’t very useful. But I perused the menu. Anything to hide my flushed face.

  After what seemed like an hour but was probably half a minute or so, the conversation began again and we were forgotten.

  As the chatter filled the air, I laid my menu on the table and gave up my pretense. We turned to mom for dinner suggestions.

  The years of hearing and speaking German at her grandparents’ home were decades behind her, so mom’s German translation was a bit rusty. But she identified Goulash Zuppa on the menu. Great! We all loved goulash or goulash soup, a fine mixture of tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, and beef. She ordered four servings of the soup.

  It arrived quickly. It was hot and tomatoey and accompanied by thick hunks of homemade bread. The crust crunched and flaked when I bit into my chunk, yet the white interior was soft. The thin smear of butter melted quickly and sank into the tiny holes of the bread’s texture. I doubt if I’d ever smelled anything so wonderful as that bread and soup, though my recollection could be seasoned with the relief that came from concentrating on the food and not on the people around us.