The Art Of Making Pie Dough Pinwheels
by Eric N Gibson
Contributing Writer
Mine was a stay at home mom who made most everything from scratch when we were kids. I do not remember much of anything coming out of a box or a can, perhaps with exception, some Saturday night baked beans once in a while and Chicken Noodle Soup. The canned soup was only if we were sick.
Being a few years younger than my siblings had its advantages. I say that now but back then having to sit in the kitchen while mom was cooking was punishing for a five year old who could not sit still. She never told me how she made anything and I wasn’t much help at that age. Mostly I just sat and watched her do things; like a housefly waiting for an opportunity.
Pies were not a staple in our house; perhaps with company, maybe mid to late summer if we had gone berry picking, or during apple season in the fall, and of course holidays. But when she made pies, mom made pie dough from scratch and it was good. A flavorful, light, flaky, crust with just the right amount of bubbles. And watching mom make pie dough, well, it was like watching a magic show; shortening, flour, a pinch of salt, a dash of sugar, and a sprinkle of water. Then some hand movements in a bowl; hocus pocus, ala-kazam, tah-dah! And, sitting before you, was a pale, nearly opaque, round ball of pie dough.
It wasn’t until later, in my early twenties and trying to impress a girl friend, that I can recall asking mom how to cook something as simple as rice. Then, as a freshman in college taking some cooking classes for my major, our relationship in the kitchen changed. I no longer asked mom how to make things so much as I was seeking a bit of “old world” guidance. But, I still couldn’t make pie dough to save my life. Fortunately my lab partner was a charmer with the ladies and the gal across the table from us worked in a bakery. We managed to pass the unit on pie baking.
How mom made pie dough look so simple, I’ll never know. As she worked at making a pie she always had a bit of dough left over. She would divide her dough in two, setting aside one of the dough balls. With a palmful of flour she’d dust the yellow Formica countertop. She’d dip her hand into the flour tin again and run it along the rolling pin and lightly dust the dough ball. With the dough ball in the center of the floured surface, she´d roll out the dough into a circle. She never rolled back and forth, only one direction; away from her or to one side or the other. She made it look so easy. The wooden rolling pin had a little bit of play on its axle. I can still hear the gentle “Ka-thunk, Ka-thunk” it made as it lightly hit the counter and then raised again with each pass over the dough. Mom never beat the dough into submission. Always gentle in her work, she knew by eye when to stop; the thickness, the circumference, and a bit to spare. Deftly picking up the crust, she laid it into a pie plate. With just a few little flicks of her wrists the crust was evenly centered and settled. Taking up a paring knife, she would trim the excess, place it to the side and begin the process again for the top crust.
What I do remember is these little pinwheels mom made with the trimmings. With the pie filled, covered, vented, and into the oven she returned to the counter, gathered the scraps of dough into a ball and rolled them out once more. This time she would take a bit of margarine and dab it across the dough and to that she would sprinkle some sugar and cinnamon on top. Lifting the edge closest to her, she would fold it over on itself and then roll the crust up like a carpet. Carefully, she paused for only a moment to pick up the paring knife, trim the ragged ends, and, in her mind’s eye, measure the remaining pastry log and begin cutting even slices about three-quarters of an inch wide until the “log” was fully divided into small pinwheels.
Taking a well used cake round from under the counter, one she used for her Parker House Rolls, she arranged these pinwheels on edge in the pan. Baked for about 10-12 minutes the aroma alone was delicious. Perhaps, some would argue, the smell was the best thing about these little tidbits of spiced dough. I always looked forward to these treats hot from the oven, but never found them to be what I savored most about mom’s cooking. The memory of these silly little pastry renderings made of sugar and spice, I have come to appreciate more, now that mom is no longer here to make them.
I don’t know what it is about pie dough but I can screw it up faster than not. My first solo foray into the world of pie dough was a fiasco! I cleaned off the counter, combined my ingredients in a bowl, and with water off to the side, began cutting the butter into the flour. I can remember wondering when this butter flour mixture was going to become the “crumb like” consistency I needed. My impatience got the best of me, I added the water to the gobs of floured butter to speed the process. That was a mistake. Then I tried to mix it all rather than continue to ¨cut¨ the ingredients together; mistake number two. Finally, I just tossed the sticky gob of ¨dough¨ onto the counter, which I had forgotten to flour; mistake number three. Not quite sure at what point I decided things were ever steadily gaining momentum down hill I kept going, trying desperately to defy the gravity of the situation.
Taking out the rolling pin I hit the gob dead center, my frustration blinding me to the fact that I had forgotten to flour the rolling pin and the gob of “dough.” This was just getting worse by the moment. After a few mindless attempts at smearing “paste” into a feeble ovoid shape with my goo caked rolling pin, I decided to scrap the entire project. Using a putty knife from the utility drawer I managed to get most of the sticky mess off the countertop before any potential witnesses stumbled onto this crime scene.
Under a cloud, I turned to the fridge and grudgingly pulled out a box of ready made pie crust. There is a reason they make this stuff. It is a welcome convenience for pie dough challenged people like me who enjoy the Simple Feast.
