Here's a picture of the utterly badass apple pie that my wife made for Thanksgiving. As you may have figured out from the general lack of dessert-chatter on this blog, I'm not much of a sweets guy. Choosing sides in the eternal bloody war between sweets and savories is a no brainer as far as I'm concerned, but this was the rare exception to that unpopular opinion of mine.
I used to enjoy baking pies and other sweets because I (incorrectly) assumed it was easier than cooking. Nowadays, I much prefer the latter because no matter how badly you butcher or intentionally veer from a recipe, you can almost always salvage/correct things with a bit of creativity and be thrilled with the results. Baking doesn't usually work that way: You laboriously measure every ingredient, follow the directions word-for-word, toss it in the oven with a panicked prayer, and then fifteen minutes later discover that you've accidentally omitted some critical component. In most cases, you are now officially screwed, and I have found myself in precisely that situation too many times to call myself a serious baker anymore. I'm in awe of those who can submit to baking's militaristic nature, but I prefer measuring by guesstimation, adding wine to the pot even when none is called for, and irresponsibly changing or skipping steps for no reason other than to satisfy my own whimsy.
HOWEVER: When my honey is doing the legwork, I am floored to act as wide receiver for her feats of sugary wonder, and that's where this pie steps into the arena. It would be fair to liken the crust to classic, Jersey shore Elephant Ears, and the apple/cranberry/maple filling was nothing shy of straight-up gooey godhead. Here are the Eaters revealing even more universal truths where matters of "Them Fucking Apples" are concerned. [Stream or download using the player below. Actually, grab the whole album while you're there, especially if you dig waaaay left-of-center hip hop a la Curse ov Dialect.]
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