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Love conquers all — even pie crust

May 14th, 2019  |  Published in Uncategorized, What we savor

Homemade birthday tomato pie. Photo: Deegan McClung.

I’d always been a fairly confident cook with a few tricks up my sleeve, like “Chicken 101,” a roast chicken recipe that’s impossible to mess up, and my signature lemon, garlic, and arugula salad, handed down to me from a dear friend who’d trained at Paris’ Le Cordon Bleu.  Living within walking distance of the Union Square Greenmarket, I’d been fortunate to take advantage of its year-round bounty, and even pulled together Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon once or twice.

But my repertoire, and, more significantly, my technique, was lacking.  I’d never been able to master eggplant, and I felt no shame picking up a Pillsbury frozen pie crust from the grocery store. 

My shortcomings became more apparent when I met Deegan, the handsome chef who cooked me ambrosial meals and moved in with me despite the fact that we couldn’t both fit at once into our tiny kitchen.  He whipped up epicurean delights on a near-daily basis, while I developed a case of kitchen stage fright.  I went from joyously cooking for one to rarely cooking at all.  Instead, I offered my assistance in the kitchen on scullery duty instead of as a cook, a trick I’d picked up from his dad when we visited his parents in New Orleans. 

Deegan’s July birthday was coming up, the third time we’d celebrate his big day together, and I wanted to make it special.  I figured I’d surprise him with a full day starting at noon with cocktails at Eleven Madison Park, a late afternoon showing of the great white shark 3D IMAX at the American Museum of Natural History, and an early-evening picnic in Central Park, complete with a vintage tablecloth I unearthed at Fishs Eddy to serve as our picnic blanket.  That was the easy part.

The menu was more difficult.  Bread and cheese from Bedford Cheese Shop was an obvious candidate, so I picked some up.  Pickles.  Wine.  Check, check.  This was all good, but my plan wasn’t quite there yet.  Then it dawned on me: I had to make our shared favorite, pie, a savory tomato pie, to make up for all the dishes I was never brave enough to cook for him.    

The plan was nuts. I’d never made a crust and it was the middle of summer in our apartment with only one AC unit.  I’d never attempted a bechamel sauce, for that matter.  But I knew what I had to do.  I wistfully pushed aside my old copy of “The Joy of Cooking,” and from among the several hundred cookbooks Deegan brought to our relationship found a crust recipe that seemed manageable.  Thank you, “Ad Hoc at Home.”  It’s fortunate I wasn’t too sure who Thomas Keller was at that point or I might have lost my nerve.  I was nearly ready to go. 

The day before Deegan’s birthday arrived.  I sliced my tomatoes, onion, and olives, peeled my garlic and plucked my basil.  I mixed the flour, cold butter, and water by hand, making sure not to let the dough get too warm, throwing it into the ice box every few minutes so that the July heat didn’t ruin it.

And then I called Deegan at work, where he was the chef de cuisine of the then-Michelin-starred restaurant Danji.  “I love you.  Happy almost birthday.  Can you walk me through a bechamel?”  And you know what?  He laughed, and he did. 

When Deegan came home later that evening, the pie was baked and cooling down, waiting for its big reveal.  It certainly looked tasty, albeit amateur.  But the biggest sign of gratification I could have received was Deegan digging right into it, and not waiting for our picnic.  He was the birthday boy, after all, and could do as he pleased. 

The pie was delicious.  Deegan the chef said so.  And Deegan, a man in love, said so too.  He’s now my husband and he’s asked for it every year since.  I still can’t cook eggplant to save my life, but I got my courage back as well as a great go-to crust, and I discovered the secret to cooking for my chef is simply cooking at all. 

The next day we sliced up what remained of the pie, put it in a to-go container, slipped on our shoes, and headed out the door into the noonday sun.

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