Pâte Brisée (Pie Crust)

The ocean holds a great sense of mystery for me. The crashing of the waves against the rocks, the salty sea air—I am drawn to it in a way I don't yet understand. I sense secrets hidden in the movement of the water and the changing of the tides. If I try to seek answers in its cryptic waters, it pretends not to hear my questions.

I grew up only a couple hour's drive from the geological center of North America. Entirely landlocked, the nearest lake was my ocean. The beaches were rocky and the sharp sand would sting the bottoms of my feet. My sandcastles were made of clay and mud. The water was as murky as could be and left you with a lingering scent long after leaving the water. Though I saw it as my substitute for the sea, I did grow to appreciate it for what it was.

Nevertheless, I longed to see the ocean. My friends would tell me passing stories of trips to the beach and I would always pry them for more information. What did the waves feel like? Was the water actually salty?

When it was finally my turn to pay a visit, I remember being struck with a great sense of awe. I never anticipated the roar of the ocean or the strength of the waves. When I was hit with my first mouthful of water, I nearly gagged on the intensity of the saline. There was a vastness I was attracted to; it made me feel so small. I was sad to leave.

Since then, I've visited the sea only a few times, but never long enough to sense the changing of the tides.

This past week, a few friends and I rented a charming beach house on a secluded stretch of the Oregon coast. I was hoping for a long, relaxing vacation on the water and my wish was granted. The house was settled on a cliff, a short walk down to a private beach. I could see the ocean from my bed; it was the first thing I would lay eyes on when I awoke in the mornings.

Every day of the week was spent down at the beach, whether playing a game of Frisbee or simply wading into the water. The water was astonishingly cold, burning the skin on my legs before my feet would go numb. I often licked my lips to taste the salt lingering from the spray of the sea. More than once I napped in the sand, lulled to sleep by the repetition of the waves.

Though the Oregon winds were chilly and brisk, the air felt fresh and clean. Great fogs would descend on the shoreline, obscuring the waters and land from view. The beach became isolated and I imagined myself on a different world. I could hear the powerful waters, but I could scarcely see more than a few feet out in the ocean. The sea is still foreign to me. I still haven't solved its mysteries.

Even now, as I am writing to you, I'm finding sand buried deep beneath my fingernails and hiding quietly behind my ears. Though the sand will wash out from between my toes, I can still recall the waves licking my feet and the chill of the water rushing up to meet my knees. The ocean settled deep within my body. It became a part of me.

If I close my eyes and listen fiercely, I swear I can hear the roar of the sea.

Unlike the ocean, this Pâte Brisée holds no secrets. Adapted from the one and only Martha Stewart, this pie crust is my idea of buttery, flaky perfection. The recipe is simple to follow and even easier to roll out. I've used this crust recipe many times without a hitch. Unlike other dough recipes, I've never had a problem with the dough shrinking when baking due to overworked dough (a huge pet peeve of mine!). I've outlined two methods for making the pie dough below—by hand and with a food processor—to make this recipe accessible to everyone and all kitchens (yes, even you!).

This dough recipe is perfect for making these Blueberry Hand Pies and a fantastic cherry pie recipe I'll be sharing with you soon!

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Blueberry Hand Pies

June passed by like a whirlwind for me. One minute it was here and the next, gone. July, ever so sneaky, crept up on me faster than a sunburn in the hot sun (and I unfortunately have a fair number to judge this against). Out here in the Midwest, summer is finally, finally hitting its stride. Spring coats have hesitantly been packed away. Shorts and flip flops dot the streets. Warm breezes brush against legs and blow softly through hair. It feels good.

It wasn't until Thursday of this week that I even realized the Fourth of July was this weekend. A coworker began talking about her weekend plans when it finally hit me. Somehow the vivid red, white, and blue colors that line store shelves, paint the streets, and dress the front of homes managed to escape my eyes. Even the calendar that hangs directly on the refrigerator slipped out of my vision. I did, however, notice that the berries were an unusually low price in the supermarket. Score one in my favor?

Nevertheless, I did have a small moment of panic. Did I already have plans? Should I plan something special for the day? What was I going to do?

But, more importantly, what was I going to bake?

The Fourth of July is, no doubt, a holiday surrounding the grill. This is the true season for hamburgers, hotdogs, and a large bag of chips. It's a chance to separate the men from the boys when it comes to the fine art of barbecuing. Or, in some cases, the women from the girls (my mother can wield a mean pair of tongs).

Like most holidays, I recognize them in the way my family chooses to eat. Whether we're at a potluck with friends or simply sitting around the table on the deck by ourselves, the grill is ever present. My mother usually tries to make this holiday special by grilling up meat and vegetable kabobs with big ears of corn. When I was younger, I wanted to do my part, too. For many years, I secretly whipped up a batch of vanilla instant pudding in the early morning hours. I would dye it red, white, and blue, layer it neatly into parfait glasses, and "surprise" everyone with a festive dessert.

After a couple years, it became less of a surprise and more of a tradition, but the simple magic of a red, white, and blue dessert was never lost.

And so, when it came time for me to decide on a Fourth of July dessert for this year, I asked you for help. Now that I'm a baker, my family expects a little more from me than an instant pudding mix. One of you wisely suggested an old fashioned pie. Perfect. What could possibly be more American than pie? Plus, a good pie also represents independence—well, independence from a healthy diet.

But, I wanted to take my pie a step further. Let's be real here; pie is messy. It's hard to cut. The filling likes to ooze out of the crust despite any orders and desperate pleas you may give it. And, though pie is delicious, it isn't necessarily a good dessert for summer potlucks. Until now. Hand pies are the perfect solution to this pie conundrum. Easy to make, easy to eat, no mess, no forks, no berry stained plates.

Though you may spot a few berry stained faces.

Have a happy Fourth of July, dear American readers! I hope it is filled with laughter, love, delicious food, the boom of a good firecracker, and the glow of flickering bonfire. Or, if you just so happen to be British, I offer you my condolences on this anniversary of your loss of a great colony.

And, for the rest of you, I sincerely hope you have a lovely Monday.

These Blueberry Hand Pies are the perfect summer potluck food. The flaky, buttery pie crust holds in the rich blueberry filling, keeping it well contained. A sprinkling of sugar completes the golden picture. I love these hand pies because they already come in individual portions and they are no mess, no fuss when it comes to eating them (especially wonderful for those of you who hate doing dishes). I hope you'll find you love these little hand pies too.

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Almond Joy Tart

One of the more interesting things I like to do when traveling abroad is to go shopping in foreign grocery stores. This may sound ridiculous. This may sound like a waste of time. Many of you may even be appalled that I'd take time out of sightseeing to peruse something so commonplace as a grocery store, but I'm going to stand behind myself on this one. It's quite amazing what you'll find.

It's one thing to dine in the unfamiliar restaurants of another country to get a sense of the food culture (and the flavors!), but dining out isn't how most of the population eats. I'm lucky if I dine out once a month. If you want to get a true idea of how people eat (and everybody eats), the market will show you just about everything you could wish to know.

I like to marvel at the differences from my own store and the foods I'm used to. Depending on where you live and where you are traveling, the fruits and vegetables vary. I've often picked up fruit I couldn't recognize, tried to translate the sign I couldn't read, and ended up snapping a photo to identify it later. The amount of boxed and processed foods scattered throughout the store can say quite a bit about the culture you're visiting. I've noticed that there seems to be a much greater focus on fresh food everywhere but the United States. I also find the sweet treats to be fascinating but, then again, my life tends to revolve a bit around butter and sugar.

Food says a lot about a culture and the people who live there. Next time you're in a far away land, eat as much as you can! But when you get full, take a minute or two out of your day to walk through a market and explore. You might just learn more than you expected.

Believe it or not, this tart tastes exactly like an Almond Joy. It is as if you've placed an Almond Joy on a flaky shortbread cookie and taken a big bite. Seriously. The sweet coconut is covered in just the right amount of chocolate—neither overwhelms the other. Sliced almonds are spread over the coconut giving each bite that rich and subtle almond flavor instead of the occasional big crunch in a real Almond Joy. This tart converted my coconut hating boyfriend into one who now requests I make more coconut treats.

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