New Years Day morn, a steaming cup of espresso, Schubert’s Trout Quintet and a Google search for lemon meringue pie. I’ll ride softtangysweet into twenty-ten.
Goodbye Betty (Crocker). This baby took two hours and total kitchen chaos just to get’er in the oven. Extra steps I’d never heard of, like making a cornstarch gel to add to meringue. Make and bake the piecrust. Ditto the pie. Bake and cool down to room temp. THEN refrigerate for a few hours. I stated at 8:00 a.m. and wasn’t ready to serve until 4:00, half time of the Rose Bowl, whereupon I delivered pieces of my orgasmic perfection to Johanna, Phyllis, Rick and Karen…friends on the beach in various stages of recovery from the night before.
This pie (keen grasp for the obvious), heaped with stiff-peaked metaphors for the year to come. I forsook my usual tendencies to skip and simplify. I didn’t want my creation to weaken and weep; the meringue to set afloat from the piecrust pier. Gotta do it right this time.
January. I embark on a one month retreat into the dead of winter. Me and Teak the Lab in a motorhome parked overlooking Lake Havasu. I’m at the end of a dead end road amidst craggy mountain splendor reminiscent of the Baja. I’m parked that I might touch my finger to my wrist and feel the pulse of Christina.
I do this because I must.