Burek-Borek-Budek-Banitsa-pie: Some little twists that ought to be documented for posterity:
The rhubarb sat on the counter for a day: A gift offered from the neighbor in the back, diagonal. She asked, “Do you like rhubarb?”
In years past her children liked rhubarb jam, but they don’t have time or interest in that anymore. It sat on the counter for 29 hours, several times passed with thought to move it to the fridge, but it didn’t.
Sunday evening, and eyes turning toward dinner, there they sat, still crisp. It seemed a shame not to do something with it, though wilted rhubarb has been used for pies, or jams, or crumbles or muffins, and those have always turned out fine — it freezes fine, too, but it becomes a wimpy, slimy thing: In the end, that’s all it really is.
It seemed discourteous to let it reach that point, unbeknownst or not. So dinner was slightly delayed by guilty pleasure — sugar cannot really be cut back a lot with rhubarb: SIL coughed on the first bite and gave herself a few esophageal pounds, “Gets ya right in the… It’s good, though.”
Even with tapioca, it was runny. Mom always said a good pie always was. As always they are, it was — with just a slice remaining, held reserved for Mom.
It is no lie: Gun-gated channels cannot barricade the rush to conclusion that gee! Protein never tasted so good! I mean, oh — ox a-daze a meal of this, they would be, in satiated euphoria!
The boys don’t gab a lot, but they would tell you, and put to bed they had no clue as — try a term and all — as neither would be fool to claim nor, dope: A minor urge! Ichabod Crane it is known, roams the countryside to seek his head, sole goal, to once again partake pot pie and soothe the craving — so substantial, Niagara in magnitude!
Come now! Don’t get sulky! A set, a goal: Lean and mean! Not some peculiar goal to hype all the llamas! A past repast — it is no sin! Apses do not ring with calls for condemnation!
Though, perhaps anyone reading this, should… But judge not! To quote a Goethe: Men show their characters in nothing more clearly than in what they think laughable.
Sad, really… Clearly time to crawl back to hibernation and the den — trite contemplation of passing time, resumed.
There’s a time, in the fall when these squash are absurdly cheap and plentiful, and parsely was also present. This outrageous little pastry put the remnants of the ravis to use, with the compliment of remaining caramalized onions, garlic, garam masala and an indiscreet amount of habenero, tucked into a crispy, whole wheat crust.
After one over-zealous forkful and bout of clammy contretemps, it was savored in cautious bites with deliberate pauses.
There are likely much healthier versions of apple pie, but the “Grandma Opel’s” at allrecipes seems to have become the default — perhaps so we can lick the caramel pan clean! Despite Ari’s resplendent desserts, we had to make a pie.
The farmer that we bought the apples from — Lodi apples — said, “They’ll pucker ya right up!” He did not lie — they were horrible eating apples, extremely bitter. Made Granny Smith’s seem sweet…
Usually we cut back, a bit on the sugar, but with this one, we rode with the whole load, and it was just barely sweet enough.