I’ve got some news for you: summer is here baby. In fact, it’s almost over.
It’s hot and dry and humid all at once, the sky is big and blue and wide and open and full of buxom blowsy clouds. Days begin early and finish late. Cicadas wake me up and lull me to sleep. Heat waves shimmer on pavement hot enough to fry an egg, and then an omelet, and probably some french toast for that matter. Sunflowers bloom. Air conditioners whirr. People while away hours at the swimming pool; life is better when you’re neck deep in ice cold water.
I always have big plans at the beginning of summer: I’m going to read War and Peace and study Russian history and I’m going to learn to ballroom dance and I’ll get a job and I’ll sew a quilt and paint the walls of my bedroom and get my driver’s license and learn French and go on day trips and make ice cream everyday of the week and wake up early and learn to how to jam and relearn Spanish and take voice lessons and read five plays and in my spare time I’m going to make doughnuts and go thrift/vintage shopping and go to yoga classes and hang out at coffee shops and chill with friends. And dance.
So far, this summer, I have:
-Learned how to say “You’re welcome.” in French.
-Woken up early, 6 days a week, and not because I want to. See Dance.
-Made more pie than any sane person should.
And to be honest, that’s about it.
I get strangely apathetic in the summer. Not BLAH. Just lazy. During the school year, the word I would use to describe myself is FRAZZLED. This summer, after almost a full year of freak-out, on-the-go-ness, my slovenly tendencies have blossomed, and I’ve accomplished exactly zip.
Though I don’t know if rising at 7:00 am IN THE SUMMER, SIX DAYS A WEEK counts as a slovenly habit. Not that I’m upset about it or anything. Did I mention that it’s summer?
This pie holds a special place in my apathetic summery heart.
This pie is a summer pie. You can only make it in the glorious summer months. Because it's a peach pie.
I don’t know anyone who doesn’t get sentimental about peaches. They’re the perfect summer fruit, just as this is the perfect summer pie. This pie never fails to impress. It never fails to get eaten immediately.
Do something with your stupid apathetic summer. Get off your ass and make this pie.
My dad likes to call it Peacha Pie. It's peaches plus a custardy filling. What could be better?
There is a lot of contention at my house about this pie. This recipe is an heirloom, which means it’s from my grandma, Ann Bryce. (SIDENOTE: My favorite cousin Kathryn recently berated me for not publishing any "Bryce Family Recipes" on this blog. SEE KATHRYN, A "BRYCE FAMILY RECIPE."AND AN HEIRLOOM NO LESS.) My dad insisted I make this pie for a dinner party we were invited to the other night. Only, he insisted we do it his way, rather than my way. His way means doubling the amount of butter originally called for and NOT melting it and adding two extra eggs. If you do it HIS way you’ll need to increase baking time, and that’s all detailed in the instructions below.