High Altitude Pie Troubles

I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, not to cook the turkey or make the stuffing--because I had decided to forgo those troublesome dishes--but to make the pies. Pie, to me, is the root of Thanksgiving tradition, after the actual gratitude. Keep your yams, cram your cranberries, stuff your stuffing, but don't forget the pie.

So, Thursday morning, I carefully crafted flaky pie crust from my grandmother's recipe. I made a delectable, professional-looking chocolate tart. I whisked together the ingredients for a delicious pecan pie, my only official Thanksgiving dessert. Why eat a boring pumpkin pie, when you can have corn syrup, nuts and butter? Cooked fruit is generally squashy and nasty, anyway, so cherry, apple and blueberry pies are right out. I mean, I'd eat an apple struedel if it came with a free trip to Central Europe, but otherwise give me something with either chocolate or nuts. Or both.

Anyway, the pie looked great and went into the oven for its hour of blissful baking. I set about making some salad for the feast and some homemade bread, which turned out fantastically. I had done research about baking at 7200 feet, and learned that most breads and baked goods came out dry at this elevation. I had easily mastered the technique of adding more moisture to my culinary delights, and my scones have never been better.

This pecan pie was a different kettle of fish. Well, for starters, there was no fish in it, although that was probably a good thing. But, not a half an hour into the baking, I started to smell something burning. Now, as a moderately successful baker, I know that one can't constantly open the oven door to peek at one's masterpiece because that can affect the stable oven temperature and cause poor results. So, I had let the pie bake unchaperoned, which turned out to be a huge mistake. By the time I investigated the cause of the smokey smell, my pie hadst runneth over. At 350 degrees (Fahrenheit, obviously) and 7200 feet (not metres), my pecan pie had boiled.

All I could do was exclaim loudly as Karo syrup turned my oven into a burnt candy factory. The pie had turned inside out, and smoke billowed into the kitchen. I had to open the window even though it was only about 10 degrees (Fahrenheit, again) outside.

I turned the oven off and did the only thing I could think of: I called my parents. My dad answered, and when I told him I had a pie emergency, he immediately put my mom on the phone. Unfortunately, my mom's boundless wisdom in kitchen matters stopped short at about 680 feet. Her advice included cleaning the oven as soon as possible and trying to salvage the pecans, which are quite expensive.

My main man and I tackled the quickly hardening corn syrup. He scraped layer after layer off of the bottom of the oven, while I tried to then remove the pie innards from our spoon and spatula scraping tools. That burnt candy was extremely hard and very sharp. It had become especially congealed on one plastic spatula, and as I tried to pry it off, it ripped a large gash in my thumb. This was no paper cut; a portion of skin was missing entirely, and it bled for over ten minutes. It still hurts now when I flex my poor little thumb. High altitude candy can be dangerous.

Once the bulk of the unexpected spillage had been removed (no animals were harmed in this disaster, except for me and my thumb), I returned the pie to the oven at a lower temperature. Although more of a pecan crumble by the time it was served, it was still quite tasty and acceptable to my guests. They weren't just being nice, either, because both pies were completely devoured during our two days' celebration, along with our main course of bangers and mash. With a few turkey cutlets on the side.