½ tsp cinnamon
1 package premade pie dough (2 rounds), chilled
1 T butter
3 T milk
*Use less lemon and/or more sugar if the apricots
are particularly sour
Turn up the heat to 425 degrees.
In a large bowl, mix the sliced apricots, sugar, lemon juice, tapioca, nutmeg, and cinnamon in a wanton tumble. Let stand for an achingly long 15 minutes.
Line a 9” pie pan with one crust and pour the fruit filling into it. Dot the succulent mound of apricots with butter. Cover the pie with the second crust and crimp the edges together using fork tines or your fingers. Cut three vents into the top of the crust. Using the milk, brush the crust to create a lustrous glaze.
Bake until the pie is a luscious golden brown, approximately 35–40 minutes.
CAULIFLOWER-BLUE CHEESE PIE
You will need an 8” springform pan
Ingredients:
1 medium head of cauliflower, sliced into small florets
2 T olive oil
Coarse salt
Freshly ground pepper
2 T butter, unsalted
2 leeks, thinly sliced
2 cloves garlic, chopped
3 large eggs
1 C milk
1 package premade pie dough (2 rounds), thawed
2 oz mild blue cheese
Egg wash: 2 T water beaten with 1 egg
Turn up the heat to 375 degrees.
Tumble cauliflower florets in oil, sprinkle with pepper and salt, and spread on a large, rimmed cookie sheet. Roast for 35 to 45 minutes, until the cauliflower is brown. Allow to cool for fifteen minutes.
Over medium-high heat, melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the sliced leeks. Cook, stirring often, for approximately ten minutes, until the leeks wilt and begin to caramelize. Add the fragrant garlic and cook for another minute, stirring frequently.
Allow to cool for five minutes.
Vigorously whisk the eggs and milk in a bowl. Season with pepper and salt.
Unfurl one of the piecrusts and fit snuggly into the springform pan. (If the dough tears, just mush it together to patch it.)
Sprinkle blue cheese over the bottom of the dough. Add the leeks and cauliflower. Lavish the egg mixture over everything.
Blanket the mixture with the second crust, pinching the edges together.
Lightly brush the top of the crust with the egg wash mixture to add a slight sheen.
Delicately cut a slit in the center of the top crust to vent.
Bake until the crust is evenly browned, approximately 45 minutes to 1 hour. A tester inserted into the center should come out clean.
Allow to cool for ten minutes.
Remove the springform pan’s outer ring and serve, to cries of rapturous delight.
BANANA-BUTTERSCOTCH CREAM PIE
Ingredients:
1 round of premade pie dough, chilled
½ C packed light brown sugar
2 T granulated sugar
¼ C cornstarch
tsp salt
4 egg yolks (large)
2 C whole milk
½ vanilla bean, split lengthwise
4 T unsalted butter, melted and cooled
2 tsp dark rum
3 medium ripe (yet firm) bananas, unpeeled
1 C heavy cream
2 T sugar
1 tsp vanilla
Toasted coconut
Turn up the heat to 350 degrees.
Unfurl one piecrust along the smooth bottom of a 9” pie tin and crimp the dough along the top edge of the pan. Snuggle parchment paper into the bottom of the piecrust and fill the tin to the brim with dried rice or beans. Bake until a pale, golden brown, approximately 20 minutes.
Combine ¼ C brown sugar, 2 T granulated sugar, cornstarch, and salt in a small bowl. Beat the egg yolks into submission, until they are smooth and supple. Add ¼ C milk and stir.
In a 1½ quart saucepan, mix the remaining milk and brown sugar, and the vanilla bean over low heat. As the mixture begins to simmer, carefully extract the vanilla bean. Scrape the seeds from the strip and add them to the milk mixture.
Remove rice and beans from the baked crust.
When the milk mixture comes to a boil, take it off the heat and pour approximately ⅓ of the steaming liquid into the bowl of sugar and cornstarch mixture.
Stir, and then pour it all back into the saucepan, returning it to the heat. For approximately 3 to 5 minutes, continue cooking and stirring and cooking and stirring and cooking and stirring until the mixture feverishly thickens and bubbles. If you have a digital thermometer, the mixture should read 160 degrees.
Take care not to overcook, as the mixture will then separate when it cools, and that is bad.
Remove the saucepan from the heat and pour the contents into a big bowl. Fold the butter into the mix. Add the rum and stir until the filling is smooth. Set aside and allow to cool for ten minutes.
Cut the bananas diagonally into ¼” slices. Lay them along the bottom of the piecrust. Cover with the cream filling, being sure to get an even layer. Lay plastic wrap right on top (yes, right on top!) of the filling. This will keep an unpleasant crust from forming on the cream. With a fork, pierce the plastic wrap several times.
Allow to cool for 20 minutes, and then refrigerate.
One hour before serving, whip the cream into a frenzy with sugar and vanilla until soft peaks thrust skyward. Lavish the cream across the top of the pie. Sprinkle with toasted coconut.
Love spending time with
Val and Charlene in the tasty world of Pie Town?
Then check out this sneak peek for
PIE HARD,
coming soon from
Kirsten Weiss
and
Kensington Books!
It began with a rumble in the dark. Objects clattered on the nearby bookshelf. Silverware and window blinds rattled. Cupboard doors bumped against their frames.
My alarm clock shimmied across the low, end table. Four AM.
Never my best at that hour, I sat upright on my futon, my bare feet on the laminate floor, and held my breath. Was this as bad as the shaking was going to get in my tiny house, or would the quake worsen?
Light flared, blinding, and I staggered to my feet.
Ribbons of light streamed through the front blinds. I turned my head, shielding my face. The glare shifted downward. Something crashed, shattered.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I seemed to split, to become both the watcher and the watched. I saw the clock plummet to the floor and break into two pieces. I saw the bookcase shadow lengthen. I saw myself hunched and cowering, my shoulder-length hair tousled like a mad woman’s. Not liking the image, I forced myself to straighten.
It was happening again. It was—
Bam! Bam! Bam!
I shrieked. Careening backwards, I crashed into the bookcase that walled off my bedroom from the rest of the tiny home.
“Yurt delivery!” a man bellowed.
What delivery? Heart still rabbiting, I grabbed my kimono robe off the coat hook on the bookcase. I shrugged into the kimono, hurried to the door, and threw it open.
Backlit by the headlights of a semi stood a middle-aged man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt rolled to his elbows.
A truck. It had only been a truck. A big truck, with more effect on my tiny house, up on blocks, than it should have. But why was a semi on my lawn?
Baffled, I stared at his sun-roughened face. I’m five-foot-five and stood two steps higher than him in my tiny house, but our eyes were on the same level.
He consulted his clipboard. “You Charlene McCree?” His semi’s headlights cut the fog. They illuminated my pink Pie Town van and the picnic table, glittering with dew.
“No. What?” I scraped one hand through my brown hair. It figured Charlene was behind whatever was going on. “Yurt?”
Two men clambered from the passenger side of the truck and walked to the rear of the trailer.
> “Then who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m Val. What’s this about? It’s four in the morning! Who are you?” I shivered, yanking my kimono belt tighter. It was August in sunny California, but San Nicholas had its own weather patterns, and the flowered robe was thin.
“It’s about the yurt delivery.” He frowned, studying his clipboard. “I swear this was the same place as last year.”
“Same place as what?” I flipped on the indoor light.
Two more headlights swung up the drive. A yellow Jeep scraped past the eucalyptus trees that lined the dirt and gravel road. It screeched to a halt beside the picnic table. My elderly piecrust maker flung open its door and stepped out.
Charlene blinked, her blue eyes widening. Her curling loops of marshmallow-fluff hair stirred in the breeze. Then she strode to my doorstep. “Forgot you were coming today,” she said to the delivery man.
“You Charlene McCree?” He thrust the clipboard at her.
“The one and only. You need me to sign?” She reached into the pocket of her green knit, tunic-style jacket. Charlene looked remarkably put together for the hour, not a white hair out of place. She was even wearing lipstick, a bright slash of salmon.
“At the X’s,” the man said.
“Charlene, what’s going on?” I asked.
She squinted at the board. “I can’t read this out here. I’ll sign inside.”
Annoyed, I stepped aside, and she climbed into my tiny home-sweet-shipping container. Since she was also my landlord, she had certain privileges.
I struggled for patience. “Charlene, what’s going on?” I repeated.
“Yurt delivery for the goddess circle,” she said. “Sorry I forgot to tell you about it, Val.”
“Goddess circle?” I bleated. “What does that have to do with a yurt? And it’s four AM.!”
“Four-oh-six,” she said. “You’d better get cracking if you want to get to Pie Town by five.”
“What goddess circle?” I asked.
“They come here every year.” She drew a pair of reading glasses from her pocket and set them on her nose. “I forgot to mention it to you. It’s only for the week.”
“What’s for the week?”
“The circle.” She sat at the tiny table between my kitchen and living area and signed the papers.
“This one of those tiny homes?” The delivery man stood in the open doorway and scanned the miniature kitchen, the fold-up table, and built-in desk.
“Yes,” I said, and turned to Charlene. “But why is he delivering the yurt here?” My lips flattened. “At four in the morning!”
She sighed with exaggerated patience. “Because this is where they have the circle.”
“Here? In my yard? At four?” I blew out my breath and tried for some Zen. Charlene was more than my employee/ landlady. We were friends. It wasn’t her fault my rude awakening had sent me into a freaky panic spiral. And Charlene’s zaniness was a part of her charm.
When I didn’t want to throttle her.
“I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with the time.” She peered over her glasses at me. “And I couldn’t cancel. The goddess gals booked it before you moved in. But I am sorry I forgot to tell you.”
I gaped. Charlene had apologized twice this morning. She never apologized. “But—”
“You’d better get dressed.”
Confounded, I stumbled to my sleeping area and grabbed a PIES BEFORE GUYS T-shirt and pair of worn jeans from the closet.
Hidden behind my bookcase partition, I shuffled into the clothes. What the Hades was a goddess circle? It was probably totally normal for freewheeling Northern California, and I didn’t think Charlene would plant a pagan cult on my lawn, but . . .
I’d find out soon enough. Plus, I was embarrassed by my overreaction to the truck’s arrival—first thinking it was an earthquake and then thinking . . . I didn’t know what I’d been thinking, only that I’d been in the throes of a full-blown anxiety attack.
In my defense, it had been four AM, a confusing time under the best of circumstances.
The rumbling from the truck engine stopped. Blessed silence fell.
I twisted my hair into a bun and dashed on some light makeup. Slipping into my comfy tennis shoes, I edged around the bookcase.
Charlene stood, arms akimbo, in front of the closed front door and frowned. “You’re wearing that?”
I looked down at my T-shirt, jeans, and tennies. “I always wear this.”
“You can’t wear a PIES BEFORE GUYS shirt to work.”
“Why not?” Pie Town was my bakery, and traditionally, the owner got to set the rules. Besides, we were selling the PIES BEFORE GUYS tees, so wearing it was free advertising.
“Because it doesn’t say Pie Town.”
“It does.” I pointed to my left breast. “Right here, like I’ve told you over and over again.”
“That’s too small to see,” she said.
I covered my breasts defensively. “They’re not too small.”
“Not your boobs, the logo! I don’t know why you made it so tiny. Don’t you have any earrings?”
“Why would I need earrings to bake pies?”
“And there’s a stain on that shirt.”
“There is?” I stretched the bottom hem forward and examined the shirt. It looked fine to me.
She brushed past and rummaged through my tiny closet. “You must have something besides T-shirts.”
“Tank tops.”
“Wear this.” She tossed a pink Pie Town T-shirt to me, and I caught it one handed. “I’ll wait outside.”
I gave up looking for the stain and changed my shirt. Since it was chilly outside, I slipped a Pie Town hoodie over it. I grabbed a banana for breakfast and joined Charlene beside the picnic table.
Three men set out long, curving red poles near the cliff.
My face screwed up. If Charlene had forgotten the yurt delivery, why had she appeared on my doorstep at this hour? “Since when do you care about how I look?” I tugged my hood, which had gotten folded beneath the back of my collar.
“A lady should take care of her appearance,” she said.
My cheeks warmed with realization. Was Gordon Carmichael back in San Nicholas? The detective and I had had a series of dating misfires. Then he’d been sent to Wyoming for some Homeland Security training. Was he going to surprise me at the restaurant? Maybe I should wear earrings.
“You’re the owner of Pie Town. If you don’t care about how you look, why should your employees?” She opened the door to her yellow Jeep. “I’ll meet you there.”
Something was definitely up. Resigned to whatever romcom Charlene had planned for Gordon and me, I climbed into my Pie Town van. It was ancient in car years, but it was the exact color of our pie boxes, and it had been love at first sight.
I followed her taillights down the narrow track to the main road. We wound through the hills, cobalt in the predawn light, and sped onto Highway One, deserted at this early hour. A few minutes later, we cruised into San Nicholas.
Main Street’s iron street lamps were dark, and my van swept through tendrils of delightfully creepy ground fog. I loved San Nicholas at this hour, when the beach town was hushed and the morning full of possibility.
I drove into the brick alleyway behind Pie Town and frowned. Charlene’s Jeep was parked in her spot. An unfamiliar white van sat in mine, which left me having to circle the block. Clearly, the rocky start to my morning had been a bad omen. I only hoped a stolen parking spot would be the least of my worries.
Scowling, I drove around the brick building and found a spot on a nearby street.
I strode down the alley to Pie Town’s rear metal door.
Charlene clambered from the Jeep and arched her back, stretching. “You ready?”
I thumbed through my keys. “Ready for what?”
“Another day of making the best pies on the Northern California coast!”
I yawned and fitted the key to the lock. “Golly gee, ye
s!” As much as I appreciated Charlene’s enthusiasm, it was five in the morning. Yawning, I pushed open the door to my industrial kitchen.
A silhouette shifted in the darkened room.
I gasped, rearing backward, and a hand grasped my arm.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Based in San Mateo, CA, Kirsten Weiss writes genre-blending novels: urban fantasy/mystery, steampunk/ suspense, and cozy mysteries. The mix just makes things more fun! Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer reruns and drinking red wine. Readers can find her online at www.kirstenweiss.com.
THE QUICHE AND THE DEAD
Is Val’s breakfast pie the quiche of death?
Owning her own business seemed like pie in the sky
to Valentine Harris when she moved to the coastal
California town of San Nicholas, expecting to start a new
life with her fiancé. Five months—and a broken
engagement—later, at least her dream of opening a pie
shop has become a reality. But when one of her regulars
keels over at the counter while eating a quiche,
Val feels like she’s living a nightmare.
After the police determine the customer was poisoned,
business at Pie Town drops faster than a fallen crust.
Convinced they’re both suspects, Val’s flaky,
seventysomething piecrust maker Charlene drags
her boss into some amateur sleuthing.
At first Val dismisses Charlene’s half-baked
hypotheses, but before long the ladies uncover some
shady dealings hidden in fog-bound San Nicholas.
Now Val must expose the truth—before a
crummy killer tries to shut her pie hole.
Bleeding Tarts Page 31
