Peach Pie

Enjoying the fruits of your labor (in sobriety)

This past weekend I made a homemade peach pie, for the first time, ever.

In an uncharacteristic whirlwind of nature-inspired energy, I took my daughter peach picking last week. It was an enjoyable experience - more so than the time our friends dragged us to the middle of the bee-infested woods for “blueberry picking”. (We’ll save that life lesson for another day).

We gathered an entire peck of peaches, and with no possible way to consume that many stone fruits, I decided to make a peach pie.

A cobbler would have been easier, but I was determined to do it right. So, this past weekend, I got to work. I started by searching for the perfect peach pie recipe and quickly discovered a Food & Wine Georgia Peach Pie recipe rated five stars.

I checked the list of ingredients, and without reading ahead, started with the first step. I made the dough, thinking that I could just whip up the entire pie in one sitting.

I reached the second step and realized that my dough had to chill…for a while. Classic rookie mistake.

So, while the dough chilled, I chilled too. The next step was a real learning curve, as I had to blanch and peel the peaches. I experimented with a few different methods of slicing and peeling, creating masses of mushy peach goo along the way. It was sticky and it was messy, but I guess that’s what an apron is for. Who knew?

I rolled out my dough, carefully layering it into the pie plate, and plopped in the peach filling. Gently, I layered the second dough piece over top. I had done it! Oh, wait…I forgot to read ahead again. I forgot to put the thin pats of butter inside the pie. F*ck.

After all my trial and error, I finally popped the pie into the oven, crossing my fingers and hoping for the best. When it was done and had properly cooled (always the longest and hardest part of baking, IMO), I cut a slice and watched as the filling oozed out.

“Is it supposed to do that?” I thought to myself, before realizing that it’s the taste that counts. This isn’t Food Network, after all. I took a bite, and wow! It turned out pretty good. Never one to turn down a pastry, I devoured the entire piece and questioned whether I should announce the pie’s existence to my husband.

(I did, of course! Sheesh.)

With a belly full of peachy goodness, I reflected on what I had accomplished. Before embarking on a sober lifestyle, I would spend my weekends drinking, and my Sundays hungover.

I would have never had the patience or energy (or the stomach) to make a pie from scratch on a hungover Sunday. But now, rather than lie on the couch wallowing in my mom guilt and hangxiety, I felt the freedom to create, nurture, and provide for my family.

The steps involved in making the pie reminded me of the steps involved in sobriety.

There are going to be missteps along the way, where you mess up but circle back and fix those mistakes. The process is often messy, you might feel stuck, and you definitely won’t anticipate all the tiny details (hello, thin pats of butter).

But you adapt, and do the best with what you have because, in the end, it is about creating something delicious. It doesn’t matter what it all looks like along the way, so long as it gets done.

In both instances, we get to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

In one way, a scrumptious piece of homemade pie, and in another, the amazing opportunities that a sober life can provide.