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Pie: A Global History

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Janet Clarkson

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“Words often give clues to the origin of things, and I hoped to learn much about the history of the pie from the word 'pie'. The Oxford English Dictionary gives its first known use as being in the expense accounts of the Bolton Priory in Yorkshire in 1303 (although the name 'Pyman' is recorded in 1301), but admits that its origin is uncertain and that 'no further related word is known outside English'. It suggests that the word is identical in form to the same word meaning 'magpie' (...). The suggested connection is that a pie has contents of 'miscellaneous nature', similar to the magpie's colouring or to the odds and ends picked up and used by the bird to adorn its nest.”

“The problem with cooking meat this way [open fire] is that even if it does not burn, the valuable and tasty juices drip away and the meat dries and shrinks. Other cooks at other times got around this problem by wrapping the meat up to protect it - in leaves, for example. Or clay. Clay that, to another cook in perhaps, another time and place, felt just like dough. This last inspired step created the primitive meat pie - something medieval cooks called a 'bake-mete'.”

“The thick crust of the early pie acted like a baking dish. For hundreds of years, it was the only form of baking container - meaning everything was pie. The crust also, as it turned out, performed two other useful functions: it acted as a carrying and storage container (before lunch boxes) and, by virtue of excluding air, as a method of preservation (before canning and refrigeration).”

“The key is gluten. Gluten is a protein with long, elastic molecules which simultaneously enable the dough to be made stronger (by providing structure) and lighter (by enabling the trapping of air bubbles). A lot of gluten means a firm structure, which is ideal for bread, but bad for pastry. Too little gluten means no structure and no air-trapping, so flat bread and tough pastry. The task of the pastry-cook is to get just the right amount of gluten to make the pastry light and crumbly and flaky.”

“Through a chink in my fingers, I watched Mel react. She fished around in her sock, producing a switchblade. She clicked it open and whipped it through the air. The steel blade caught the sunlight, and flashed. Then she tore after the creature, squealing and hoofing as it had. It looked up at her in dismay, and I partially pitied it, pitied the terror on its homely face. She swiped the blade across its side as it attempted to turn around, its legs scrabbling, its pudgy body squirming and twitching, trying in vain to push through the dense tangle. Mel had a chance to knife it again—I could see her debating whether she should, but she wiped the bloody blade against her sock instead. The injured creature finally made headway into the creepers. Another squeal, and then its backside and tufted tail disappeared into the undergrowth. Shuddering, I moved my hands from my face. I stared at Mel. I tried to breathe. The pig’s blood looked bright and alarming against the grimy cotton of her sock. FROM DAMSELFLY “Will it die?” I whispered. “I didn’t get it very deep. I should have killed it. Killed it before it killed you.”