February is just around… no, it’s here, it’s now. Let’s try this again. While others are preparing… or were preparing…
Ugh, okay, this was supposed to be out on February 15th, but because I was involved in other projects and procrastination, I didn’t prepare this dish until the 14th. But you know, Valentine’s Day is no longer seen as a day of romance. It’s a day of love in all its forms. Good thing for greeting card companies and retail establishments. But I thought I’d show my love to a dearly departed cook and wine enthusiast.
That’s right, we’re revisiting Ruth Ellen Church’s Mary Meade’s Magic Recipes, I’m reusing that photo of the cover, and I’m trying another oddity by today’s standards.
I can see you grimacing already. That was my reaction when I saw the sour cream and raisin combination. That was my reaction from the raisins alone. Even as a youngster, I never cared for this staple of childhood snacks. Something about the texture… and maybe seeing some kid pick his nose in second grade reminded me of… eeeuugh. Moving on.
You’d think I’d turn this one down, but after preparing and consuming another one of Mrs. Church’s recipes, I feel that I have lost the right to turn down anything remotely weird or gross. Except for balut. I’m never trying balut. (No, don’t look it up, don’t—!)
Let’s not stall.
First, I baked a pie shell, following the directions on the package. Did you know that you can mend broken pie shells by wetting and pushing down on the seams before “stitching” them with fork tines? Did you know it needs to be done after the shell is thawed? I didn’t either until I wondered why the seams weren’t joining properly and reread the directions. That’s why part of the shell has that white streak.
You’re supposed to prick the shell all over so it bakes evenly. I think this is also supposed to prevent major bloating. But if that happens during baking, just take the shell out, stab it in the poofy part, and put it back in. I did this three times and it still bloated. As you can see, the shell suffered some battle damage, but considering I was baking for myself, I didn’t mind.
Moving on to the heavy work. Here we have raisins, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, cornstarch, salt, and the… sour cream… crap, hold on…
And sour cream.
And eggs.
And two eggs. Damn, I couldn’t get my act together. What would Mrs. Church think?
She probably would have tsk tsked my sorry blender. As I suspected, Mr. Oster didn’t take to anything thicker than puree. After two attempts to mash the ingredients into his blades, I gave up and went with Ol’ Betsy the immersion blender. Well, I went to her in her salsa making form… which also failed to chop up the raisins. So it was Betsy in her true form as a standalone immersion blender.
Only a minute was needed to reduce the raisins to chopped bits. You’ll notice a decided lack of photos in this part because I was in a hurry to get this pie in the oven and resume with other household tasks. I’m sure you’ll trust that I performed the necessary steps and didn’t buy prepared sour cream-and-raisin pie mix from the store. Besides, that stuff doesn’t exist. I’m in a region that sells canned pork brains in the supermarkets, and even sour cream-and-raisin pie mix would be too weird for folks around here.
After everything was sufficiently chopped up, I poured the fragrant goop into the pie shell and baked it. Why you need to bake the pie shell again… I don’t know, I was following instructions. But the shell was going to turn out the way I’d detested…
Voila, sour cream raisin pie, all ready for eating. Sans whipped cream, because I wasn’t making another run to the store.
I recommend letting this sit for a few minutes before eating. When cold, everything is dull and only mildly spiced raisins make it on the taste buds. But when warm or at room temperature, that’s when the raisins and spices come alive. If you’re wondering about the sour cream taste, there isn’t any. It provides a body for the other ingredients and that’s about it.
My complaint was the pie shell. I prefer flaky or doughy pie shells. This was brown, brittle, and half-burnt by the end of the baking cycle. Yes, I did bake at the right temperatures. Some people may consider this to be flaky, but to me, flaky implies a delightful, soft texture, reminiscent of commercials where model hands pull apart hot biscuits in erotic slow motion. This stuff crumbled upon touch, sight, and thought. It detracted from the overall flavor. In fact, I didn’t mind the pie shell when eating a cold slice because that part of the flavor equation almost didn’t exist.
Suffice it to say, the next time I make this, I’m using a thawed pie shell. No baking ahead of time.
As for the scent, it’s oddly Christmas-y. Nutmeg and cinnamon are found in a lot of holiday recipes, so that connection isn’t far fetched. I imagine this being a backup pie when one looks over a plum pudding recipe and thinks “Hell, no.”
Despite the disappointing pie shell, I’m rather satisfied with this one. If anything, it’s another use for raisins besides suet filler. But I have to think that I never gave them a real chance as a child; I more or less resigned to having them parade as ants on my peanut butter-smothered celery sticks. I’m still far from a fan, but I’m more open-minded about wrinkly ex-grapes.
Maybe come holiday season 2019, I can experiment with this recipe using some plum pudding ingredients… I hope I do Mrs. Church proud.
