She’d always wondered what it would be like to go through a bulk bag of flour and a sixteen-stick box of butter.
Back breaking. First, she had to lift it from the pallet to the cart, heave it from the cart to the car, then lug it from the car up three flights of stairs to her apartment. Only then did she discover the flour trail creeping in behind her from a busted corner. The butter took significantly less effort but was half melted when she retrieved it from her car.
If only she still had a strong boyfriend to carry the heavy things.
She spent the rest of her afternoon scouring antique stores, thrift shops, and garage sales for deep ceramic pie dishes. The kinds with colorful fluted edges and recipes printed on the bottom for fruit pies, brownie pies, and pot pies.
She didn’t find one for an all meat pie, but she’d improvise.
Upon a butcher block, she carved meat from bone, peeling off the skin and excess fat, reserving a scant cup to make a gravy and brush the crusts. After whisking a roux, she dumped the meat into a stock pot before repeating with a second pot.
Upon the clean counter, she cut butter into flour until her fingers went numb and rolled out crust after crust, mashing the edges thickly against each plate’s decorative edging before ladling in the steaming meat filling and covering with a second crust. She scored the top of each pie with surgical precision.
In the oven for an hour at 400 degrees F, four pies at a time, swapping the racks halfway through. Her kitchen felt like a blacksmith’s forge.
Sixteen pies total, cooled and boxed, to be delivered to the soup kitchen. To make sure every scrap was used, she sawed the bones down and began to brew a bulk supply of bone broth.
Next time she’d buy a shovel.
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