Eye of the Tigress

The annual Hawthorne Springs Boysenberry Pie Contest is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most anticipated event of the entire year. Tens of people, including myself and my loyal husband Bob, commute from our neighboring suburban enclaves to The Covenant Church of Hope for a shot at pastry greatness and local fame, each of us toting exactly three distinctive takes on the boysenberry pie; classic, crumble, and chef’s special. We offer our submissions to be tasted by the contest’s judges, all esteemed members of the church. 

The contest is renowned for its competitiveness. Each pie must be baked and displayed to church standards. Presentation is everything. After surveying and tasting each contestant’s entry, the judges deliberate on who shall be the recipient of the grand prize: an engraved wooden plaque ordered from an Etsy artist, commemorating the victory; a photo with the judges that will be displayed in the church dining hall; and a $75 gift card to Johnson and Baker’s, the local bookstore. To be clear, there is absolutely nothing in this world that I want more than the aforementioned grand prize. However, winning is no easy feat.

My first hurdle is, of course, purchasing the perfect batch of boysenberries. This staple of the recipe will either make or break my chances at winning. Most people do not believe this to even be a hurdle. They think I am being silly. They believe they can simply walk into any old grocery store or farmer’s market and grab the first bunch of boysenberries they see thoughtlessly thrusted onto the shelves of some forgotten produce section. Then again, most people are fools. They are blithely unaware that the best boysenberries are imported from Nelson, New Zealand; a small, quaint town on the tip of the South Island. I’ve spent the past six and a half years cultivating a strong bond with a rather chipper sales associate of a certain farm that will remain unidentified, for strategic purposes. I will, however, disclose the name of the associate; his name is Tyler, and he is my dear friend.

Tyler sends me approximately five pounds of ripe boysenberries. And since he and I live on opposite ends of the planet, a great deal of logistics and over-communicating is required to ensure the berries are harvested and shipped on time. Shipping costs, of course, are a point of contention between me and Bob. However, after much discussion, he has come to recognize my unyielding dedication to winning this contest and he offers his support –- and his credit card –- to ensure my victory. I love my generous and loyal husband.

You may be asking yourself, “Why on Earth does she need five pounds of ripe New Zealand boysenberries? Why doesn’t she simply order from an American farm?” The answer is simple; I am banned from most boysenberry vendors in California and all vendors in Oregon. After an incident occurred years ago –- one in which I maintain my innocence to this day –- I have struggled to find a loyal, respectful, and quality vendor who responds to my emails, returns my phone calls, and meets my unique produce requirements. That is, until I found my dear friend Tyler.

As for the quantity of produce, the answer is logistical. The boysenberry is a delicate, temperamental fruit and the average delivery service employs careless, heavy-handed plebeians. Even when Tyler thoroughly follows my detailed packing instructions for international shipping, a considerable percentage of the berries arrive in damaged condition, and I cannot use unseemly boysenberries in my pies. They simply will not do.

As the berries make their voyage from Tyler’s tender hands to my humble abode, I embrace my second hurdle; scouring my town’s resources for the remaining ingredients. The day before the berries are scheduled to arrive, I set out to purchase the following: granulated sugar, cornstarch, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger, and salt. Most of these ingredients can be store-bought; however, I do add to my list of errands a visit to Martin, another dear friend of mine.

Martin oversees a farm which is about a two hours’ drive outside the city. When I arrive, he, as if on cue, hands me a handful of lemons picked directly from the tree, freshly churned butter, and six eggs laid hours ago by chickens I hand-selected. I inspect the products scrupulously to ensure their quality, though I rarely doubt Martin’s keen eye for such things. He is a dear friend indeed.

I return to my home with my findings and store them in the garage refrigerator -- my special refrigerator. I place each ingredient in its own crisper drawer and tray, ensure the moisture and temperature controls are tuned to the correct settings, and gently seal the door shut.

As I lie in bed, I tune out Bob’s sleep apnea by double-checking the tracking number of my incoming shipment and going over the schedule for the following day. When I confirm the boysenberries’ imminent arrival, I take a moment to sit in gratitude before I drift off to sleep. How many people can say they are pursuing their passion? How many can say they are dedicated to realizing their goals? Am I not one of the luckiest women alive to have a shot at such acclaim? The answer is an irrefutable YES. This is not baking, this is alchemy; I am not a pastry chef, I am a chemist.

Once the berries arrive the next day, and I have separated the seemly from the unseemly, I start the baking process by filling my freshly sanitized sink with cold tap water. I drizzle in a teaspoon of dish soap and stir until a thin film of bubbles layer the surface. I dump the berries into the water and delicately scrub them with a damp paper towel to remove any remaining dirt or dust they may have accumulated during transport. I ensure every crevice of each berry is rinsed of impurities, careful not to rupture the fleshy nodules. As the berries dry, I draw in deep, calming breaths in preparation of the third hurdle. My eyes snap open. I’m ready.

I stand before my cooktop stove like a sculptor taking in a fresh marble slab. My hands glide along the smooth, chilly surface of the control panel and find a knob. The rapid clicking ignites a dazzling fire, both from the gas burner in the front right corner of the stove and in my solar plexus located squarely in the pit of my gut. This is my reason for living.

I position a four-quart, stainless-steel saucepan on the iron railing above the fire and move quickly to fill it with the required ounces of boysenberry juice. At the first signs of bubbling, I reduce the heat and pour in two cups of granulated sugar and one cup of cornstarch. Immediately after -- and I do mean immediately –- I whip out my ten-inch, wooden-grip whisk and whirl it within the wine-colored mixture. My eyes are sharper than an eagle’s as I search for any clumping, ensuring that the blend remains smooth. Like magic, the liquid converts into a thick paste.

I proceed to carefully add the boysenberries to the pan, along with my others ingredients; a dash of nutmeg, a tablespoon of cinnamon, a pinch of salt, and the zest of a lemon. Instead of stirring these components into the mix with the whisk like some maniacal bedlamite, I retrieve my solid stirring spoon. I stir until the portions of berries are equally dispersed within the mixture. A quick taste test illuminates my tongue with flavors that I imagine only the Aurora Borealis would contain if one could taste it. It is then that I know my filling is complete. 

I waste no time covering the saucepan with a glass lid and storing it in the refrigerator. I return to my workspace with the five chunks of dough that I made three weeks ago for this exact occasion. As my oven preheats, I sprinkle flour onto a cutting board and plop the first loaf of dough on top, filling the air with white powder. Using my marble rolling pin, I massage each groove and lump of the dough until it is flattened into a smooth disk. I repeat this process, ensuring two of the disks are moderately thicker than the others. My arms beg for a reprieve, but I ignore them. 

My first pie, the classic, is the easiest to assemble. As Ingrid Moldova -- the administrator of the BAKING QUEENS Facebook group I joined last year -- would tell you, the bottom crust is one of the most crucial focal points of every pie; it must be sturdy enough to maintain its shape when served, yet delicate enough to add a near imperceptible crunch to the overall gustatorial experience. Therefore, I take one of the thicker disks of dough and lay it into a greased glass pie plate. I retrieve my chilled filling from the refrigerator and add four heaping spoonfuls of the congealed contents into the dish. I seal the pie with a top layer of dough, create a rounded zigzag pattern on the rim of the plate, and coat the surface with thin layer of egg wash and a slice of butter. I add five ventilation slits to the middle of the pie, resembling a star; and with that, I have flawlessly executed my classic boysenberry pie.  

The crumble pie has historically been an issue for me. Two years ago, the lead judge of the competition Sister Martha made a funny face in reaction to tasting my submission for that year; a distinct nose furrow that has been singed into my memory. Not only was I cursed to witness this wanton act of disrespect a second time in last year’s competition but it was so jolting that I nearly lost my composure both times. I know the reason is because I replaced a portion of the sugar that is required for the crumb topping with Stevia, a healthy alternative. I also know that the taste difference is so minute, that it certainly doesn’t warrant a nose furrow. However, I don’t believe I would be able to “keep my cool” with the looming pressure I'm feeling to excel this year; so, I add the full amount of sugar detailed on in my recipe and pay absolutely no regard to her diabetes. My sights are set on victory.

The inspiration for my third and final pie came to me in a dream. I had fallen asleep in front of the television while a special on Spanish artist Salvador Dali was airing and I channeled his spirit into my subconscious. We engaged in riveting conversation for what felt like a millennia; his wonderfully obscure surrealist paintings providing the perfect backdrop as he whispered his artistic genius into my ear. When I awoke, I sprang to my feet and scribbled down Dali's words on the nearest item. Deconstructed. Boysenberry. Pie. The idea was so avant-garde, so daring, so bold. I knew I was the one destined to debut such a work of art to the people of Hawthorne Springs. 

To create this masterpiece, I add shredded ginger and lemon juice to the remaining pie filling; certainly a pleasant surprise for the judge's taste buds. Then, I transfer the filling into the custom porcelain ramekins created in the pottery class I enrolled in following my creative revelation. I then coat the remaining pie dough in sugar and slice it into inch-wide strands, twisting and contorting them into helixes that I will bake into accent pieces and place around the ramekins to give the illusion of a pie. My hands shake as the concept is birthed from my imagination into the world. 

I open the oven door and delight in the scorching air escaping the chamber. I place the classic and crumble pies on the top rack and the helix crusts and ramekins on the bottom. I close the door and set a timer. It is then that I grab my favorite pillow and blanket and settle down in front of the oven door to monitor the baking process. In the past, Bob has remarked that watching the pies bake is unnecessary. He says most people set the timer and simply go about their afternoon. Clearly, he doesn’t know that the most common error one makes in preparing a pie is burning it in the oven because he or she was either too lazy or inexperienced to watch it bake. I refuse be a victim of my own incompetence, so I wait in front of the oven, blinking sparingly, until the pies are baked to completion.

I arrive at the church one hour early, as to avoid last year’s mistake of allowing the table adjacent to the window with the good lighting to be reserved by Mrs. Apperton. The necessary precautions are taken to eliminate any chance that my competition could outshine me. I unfold my handwoven tablecloth and carefully remove each pie from the temperature-controlled travel case and position them on their own display stand. I dress the table with boughs of holly and the remaining boysenberries from my kitchen. On the tops of each pie, I position a few needles of rosemary with culinary tweezers for added effect. Presentation is everything.

My hands are calloused, my feet ache, and my cheeks burn with fatigue from constant smiling. I’m sure my heart could give way at any moment from the 250 milligrams of caffeine I consumed on the way here, but I do not care. This will be the year that I make history as the longest reigning champion of the Hawthorne Springs Boysenberry Pie Contest. This will be the year that I claim my eighth victory, and nothing will stand in my way. Nothing.