Pie, Claudius

Is there anything more delightful than pie？

The answer to that question is， duh， of course. Life has an infinite number of things that can bring more happiness than， say， a gooey， buttery pecan pie or a decadent key lime pie topped with cloud-like spoonfuls of whipped cream.

But there’s something particularly satisfying to me about baking， which in my mind is always associated with lazy afternoons where the most pressing task I have before me is deciding which apron I want to wear.

During the past decade that I lived in New York City， when it felt like my life was consumed by my work， I treasured those afternoons the special playlist （heavy with Ryan Adams） that I’d only play on those days； the ritual gathering and arrangement of flour， butter， eggs， salt and sugar on my kitchen countertop； dusting my hands with a light coating of flour and kneading dough； watching a cake softly and slowly rising in the oven， and knowing that the worst thing that could happen if I screwed up was that my dog would have a feast that evening.

I’m a little ashamed to admit that， over the years， much of my identity and my ego has been built around my reputation as a baker of delicious little things. I often think that if baking were a religion and Martha Stewart my messiah， I would be the Paul to her Jesus， spreading the gospel of crumbly？pate brisée？throughout the Crisco-eating world.

What I love about baking is that you don’t actually need any inherent talent to be a good baker. All you need is a tried-and-true recipe， the right ingredients and tools， and a somewhatretentive nature. That’s it. There’s no magic to it at all it’s just basic science.

Essentially， I take a lot of pride in doing something that requires absolutely no skill. This is the quicksand upon which my little shack of an ego is built. It’s like complimenting your friend’s baby on their ability to crawl， or being impressed by a politician’s lack of ex- tramarital affairs the bar is set rather low.

And yet， your ego is your own， after all， no matter how flimsy it may be， and it’s a bit painful when bruised.

I was reminded of this when I attempted to bake a pie in Beijing， and to say it was a complete disaster is a bit of an understatement and an insult to disasters everywhere.

In December of last year， I quit my job of four years， sublet my Brooklyn apartment， found a temporary home for my dog Hugo， and came to China with no real plan except to eat massive amounts of street food.

When I packed up all the worldly belongings I thought I would need to live in China for six months， I somehow neglected to bring my pie pan （I did， however， bring four binder clips， three bars of soap， and my bathrobe）. That is a decision that I now bitterly regret.

A week after I arrived in Beijing， my roommate invited me to a potluck dinner party at the home of her friends. Wanting to impress people with my cooking， I had， perhaps， too overconfidently， promised to bring a banana cream pie. This is a pie that I’ve made countless times back home much like my Kitchenaid standing mixer， it’s never let me down， and has always been delicious.

You may reasonably ask， did I consider the fact that I was in Beijing， a worldly city to be sure， but one where heavy cream， good butter and pie pans are not in ready supply？ Did I ask myself how I would bake using the countertop oven， what is essentially a glorified， oversized toaster？ Did I consider， even for a moment， how I would follow a recipe without the use of measuring cups or spoons， all while having to convert from ounces to grams？

I did， actually. And I naively believed everything would be fine. Some things， though， are not only lost in translation they become mangled and disfigured beyond recognition. And as they say， pride definitely cometh before a fall.

I won’t go into too much detail， but I will tell you that not even the use of non-GMO corn starch or artificial whipped cream from a can （a last-minute move made out of desperation） could save me from a simultaneously dry yet overly buttery crust and a burnt， oversalted banana filling.

At the dinner party， one woman took a bite and kindly told me， “Well， you can definitely tell there’s banana in it.” And I thought to myself， now I know how Napoleon felt after his misguided invasion of Russia cold， acutely aware of his blunder， and filled with a foreboding that perhaps there would not be a chance to redeem himself in the future.

I’m still waiting for a second invite.