Poached Pear Pie

Outside of my house, resides a very lively and beautiful pear tree. For as long as I can remember, it has always been there. My father told me how he and my mother had planted it, not actually expecting it to grow. He told me about how they would sit under the plump silhouette of the tree, and daydream, escaping from the world. He also related my mother’s hope, that someday she would make poached pear pie.

She never did get a chance to make the pies though. Growing up with just my dad, my father would help me pick the fruit from the prolific tree. He would raise me into the sky, and I would weave in between the almond shaped leaves to grasp the rough skin of the golden fruit. My tiny hands, plucking them from their home, would toss it into the haphazardly-made wicker basket. The sides of which poked me as I lifted the all too heavy basket with all my might. My father belly laughed behind me, watching as I struggled with the basket walking into the kitchen.

That was the beginning of the process…

Next came the almost eternal wait for the pears to ripen. It was like waiting for Christmas to come. I watched as my father placed all of them in one of the brown bags we had gotten from the general store. He would place a banana in the bag with them, mumbling to himself that it speeds up the ripening time. I would wave goodbye to them, watching as my father sang a song as he placed them gently in the ice box. Every day, I would go and check them, earning a light scolding from my father who would inform me that I needed to leave them alone because they were sleeping.

When the day finally came to test the pears, my father would kneel before me, placing my little apron upon my shoulders and around my neck. He would say, “With great power, comes great pie.” And with that, he placed the brown paper bag on top of the counter, as I fished out my stepping stool from the broom closet, placing it beside him. He would stare down at me, smiling whilst feeling the softened fruit. He placed one in front of me, letting me feel the neck of the fruit yield to my fingertips.

“Bonnie Bartlett, it’s showtime!”

Before I knew it, he was here and there, placing the needed ingredients on the countertop as I stood taking out the soft fruit.

Puffs of flour filtered through the air as my father plopped the bag down. He measured out what seemed like mountains of flour, clumsily causing the powder to canvas the surrounding counter. He let me grate the lard into the bowl, telling me that it was like hail, raining down after a light snow. Pouring the water in, he then took a knife, chopping it up whilst humming “Straighten Up and Fly Right”. As the dough began to come together, sticking like glue to the knife, my father put down the knife and I reached my hand in, pushing the dough as you would to a fat cat’s belly. My hands ebbed and flowed until the dough became as smooth as a baby's backside.

My father patted my back, before lightly dusting the cutting board with flour. Grasping the bowl with one hand, he nudged the smooth dough onto the board. As he rolls out the dough, his muscles constrict, tensing up as he massaged it thoroughly. His brow furrowed in exhaustion as the dough finally acquiesced to the rolling pin. He brought it to and from the icebox again and again, rolling and folding the dough in between each trip. After the fourth fold, he finally placed it in the icebox to keep the butter from melting.

He then moved to the stove, where he had earlier placed a copper saucepan, which contained sugar, white wine and cinnamon. The only thing he was waiting for was the orange zest, which he had tasked me with doing. However, I had become rather fixated on eating the orange instead. He laughed, taking my discarded orange peels and grating them over the saucepan. Under a low flame, he peeled the plump pears until the syrup came to a boil. Handing me a wooden spoon, he plucked me off of my stool and held me in his arms, carrying me over to the stove.

“Now stir gently, my little Bon Bon. We’re going to give the pears a nice bath.”

I giggled as he placed me down, slowly submerging the pears in the thick syrup before turning the heat down to a simmer. We danced, waiting for the pears to soften more, as the sweet voices of the Andrew Sisters on the victrola blanketed the kitchen. As we danced the fragrant smells kissed our noses, lifting our spirits as the time flew by.

The pears promptly came to a second boil. Taking the supple fruit out of the warmth of the syrup, my father removed the core, and placed them on a baking sheet. Not long after were the pears swaddled in dough and painted with the remaining syrup. The dough, now glazed with sugar and cinnamon, looked as delicate as glass. He gently placed them in the oven, handing me the spoon with the remaining syrup.

The room soon filled with the heady aroma of spiced pears, warm pastries and home. As a half hour passed by, the smell getting more and more fragrant, the pastry getting a lustrous golden brown, I knew it was time. I gingerly, remove the sheet from the oven, placing the charming little pies on the counter and let them cool.

“Alright, my little Bon Bon. Get yourself a plate.”

As she sits down at the table, legs swinging excitedly back and forth in anticipation, I place the pie on her plate, drizzling the remaining syrup on top. Her spoon crunched through the crispy pastry, sliding through with precision. She hastily scooped the piece into her mouth, eyes closing in contentment as her lips smacked together. Her eyes open wide, popping at the sugary treat. I steal a bite, pursing my lips at the smooth buttery treat. The cinnamon danced on my taste buds as the orange zest joined in. As our eyes meet I ask, “So? What do you think, my little Bon Bon?”

“Grandma, this is the best pie ever!”