My oh my, another pie--Reverend Roffey’s raisin.
It was after I conquered the making of raisin pie and acquired a dangerous taste for the flaky, sweet concoction that Brenda, who had commissioned it in the first place, told me that Reverend Roffey's dream raisin pie was made with sour cream and raisins (Reverend Roffey is the chaplain at the college where she works.)
Since it had to be the pie he longed for, I needed to find a recipe for this fabulous pie. On a hunch I plucked a Mennonite cookbook off my shelf and searched the pie section, profusely populated with all sorts of pies. "Surely I will find it here," I thought, and I was right!
On Saturday I made several pastry shells as well as apple pies (for Jamie, Sam and Caliene, a friend from work) and tonight was the night to actually venture into the uncharted complexities of a pie new to me.
I simmered the raisins to plump and juicy perfection, drained them, measured back the right amount of liquid; added brown sugar and began to heat it all back up. The next thing was to add cornstarch and stir in beaten eggs. I was madly stirring when the phone rang. It was Pete.
I felt a little neglectful of Pete when focusing on mothers and daughters alone in my Mother's Day post. He is wise, a lover of Susan his wife and his family, above all else next to God. He is brilliant in figuring out how things should work logically and systematically and he loves to communicate ideas and thoughts. One day I hope he starts writing down what he knows and thinks in books, because what he tells me in his long conversations is always worth hearing.
But now I stood with a phone to my ear with one hand, stirring a rapidly thickening mass of raisins, eggs, sugar, cornstarch and water--a tripled recipe because I don't know how to ever make one of anything. All that was required of me in the conversation was the occasional sound to prove that I was there. I truly was gripped with interest, but also with an awareness of the importance of not burning the raisins or ending up with bits of poached egg in the mixture.
Any such bits were fished out (next time I will add the cornstarch and beaten eggs before I start heating the mixture.) I transferred the stiff concoction into a large bowl and stirred it as I talked in order to cool it down. When it was cool, I folded in sour cream and cool whip and then poured it all into the waiting pie shells. By that time Pete had gone back to putting a son to bed.
Reverend Roffey's pie is in Brenda's fridge, ready for work in the morning. And we have two to be shared with our cell group tomorrow night. I wish I could put out a little plate with this post with slices for readers to sample--but perhaps if you try hard you can imagine it!