conventional wisdom

While I love making a good pie, the days move fast. Especially now that I’m west, sun kissed, and in the garden, the days move and move. I’m the kind of homemaker who prefers to have a frozen dough (if you’ve already bothered to make a pie crust, why not make two and know there’s more later?). At least, if it’s frozen, you can think you’ll find the time to make little tarts, decorative cookies, anything small and cute.

It doesn’t usually happen, but there’s something fast and easy…and just as good! A galette.

As a poet, I can’t help but compare this to free verse or open form. Sure, you should try your hand at a ghazal and you’ll learn more about poetry and poem-ing if you really work at the pantoum, but there’s always the free verse for when you find yourself trying to say something that takes its own shape or refuses to take any shape at all (sometimes, even, refuses to take any language). The galette is like this: empowering and intelligent. The galette listens to the simmering fruit, vegetables or whatever you’re filling your pate brisee with, and intuits its own shape and form.

This week, loaded with spinach, onion, aged cheddar and white wine, I made a savory galette and remembered that the discourse of cooking is insanely delicious. Who cares if it’s not as pretty as a braided pie? The galette moves to meaning, moves toward remembering that the real brilliance of cooking is the ingredients and learning how to recognize and honor the precision of the ingredients instead of the precision of the dough. So, I added some pepper (a lot of pepper) to my frozen pate brisee from a pervious strawberry (and much more perfect) pie and assembled an utterly delicious spinach and onion galette and I don’t feel guilty about how free form its shape is.


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