派的考验:寻找家的感觉

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当尝到自己千辛万苦做成功的派时，我真正体会到通过辛勤劳动换来的果实是多么美味，也重新记起童年的快乐和家的温馨??

“I made a pie today.”

That is a simple, five word sentence. Yet with that simple sentence I elicited the wheezing1) laughter of a proud, chain-smoking2) mother on the telephone last night.

My childhood was spent among the pie makers. My mother would drag my sister and me out for long walks where we would pick wild strawberries from the ditches3) that lined the country highway where we lived. In my memory, it was always a quiet but scorchingly4) hot day when we picked them, and my sister was constantly complaining about being thirsty and bored.

Together, the three of us would slowly work our way down the road, and cars that passed would honk5) and wave at us—my mother using it as an excuse to stand up and give her back a break from bending over for so long.

My grandmother, my mother’s mother, lived a block down from a cherry orchard. The old man who owned the farmland that included the cherry orchard always allowed my grandmother to come and pick as many cherries as she would want. My grandfather, a carpenter, would return the gesture by fixing odds and ends6) and building small furniture for the old farmer.

Again, my sister, mother, and I were sent out to pick the dark red berries off the trees. My memory, here too, is filled with heat. We would walk to the orchard across the unplanted field overgrown with milkweed that I loved to pick; ripping it open like corn husks7), I’d throw the sticky white stalks at my sister who would scream, running for cover behind the solitary tree that stood in the middle of the field.

When we got back to Grandma’s house, she would set to work. With a dip of her sifter8) in that green plastic tub, she would sprinkle9) a snow shower of flour down onto the kitchen table. Smacking10) the start of dough on the table, her hands would knead11) and slide around the floured table. The wooden rolling pin12) would push the dough out, and if it were too sticky, she’d dust the table with a smattering13) of more flour. It was as if it were choreographed14) to music, but instead of music, we would hear—“Hello, Americans, I’m Paul Harvey15) ...” Her wedding ring would fill with flour and pie dough and she’d spend an hour cleaning it out with a toothbrush as the pie cooked in the oven.

With that paper-thin crust16) complete, she’d gently place it in the glass pie plate and cut around the edges. In the meantime, my mother would have been pitting the cherries. I never remember seeing those cherries get mixed together—I just remember them being placed in the pie plate as Grandma worked out another pie crust for the top.

Though it was the filling that tasted so good, the crust was magic.

I have never been able to master the pie crust. My grandmother did it, my mother can do it, my cousin Joey can do it, but I cannot. Strike that17). I could not, until last night.

In my apartment, I have no kitchen table and I have about one square foot of counter space. I have attempted the pie crust before. I have rolled out the dough just to get it stuck to my rolling pin like glue, crusting over and drying out before I could even attempt to fix it. I have made crusts too thin, too thick, too wet, too dry ...

My attempt last night had me taking everything off the coffee table that I use as a kitchen table in the living room area. I figured if flour gets on the floor, well, that’s why God invented vacuums. I turned off the television, and with a surgeon’s attention to detail I rolled out a perfect pie crust—twice.

Much to my dismay, however, after I put the crust in the bottom of the pie plate that has NEVER made its way into the oven, I realized that I hadn’t bought anything to put in the pie. You see, I have failed so many times that I had forgotten there was a step after the actual crust.

“I don’t have a recipe, I just mix it together ...” my grandmother told me on the phone. That was no help. My mother didn’t answer her phone until I finished the whole ordeal.

So, I did what any modern shopper does: I went to the grocery store to read labels of canned fruit to find a recipe for pie filling. I was not disappointed: the can of cherries had a lovely little recipe with almond extract18) and cinammon19). Perfect.

I raced home, afraid of what the temperature could be doing to my pie crust. I was paranoid20). I had never gotten this close before—it’s like running a marathon and right when you see the finish line on the horizon, you just collapse to the ground.

But, the Fates21) smiled down upon me. I whipped together that filling recipe, placed my filling into the crust, put the top crust on, popped that pie in the oven and waited for 40 minutes—pacing the floor like a father waiting for his baby to be born. I resisted opening the oven door, because mother always said that would mess too much with the temperature of things and could potentially cause burning.

When that buzzer went off, I opened the door. There it was. No bubbling over, no splitting off of the crust—it was a golden brown and smelled like buttery goodness.

Waiting hours for it to cool, I had that first piece before calling my mother. Do you know how it is when you bite into certain foods and your entire mouth starts salivating22) to the point where you almost drool23) on yourself? Yeah, that’s what this pie tasted like.

“I made a pie today,” I told my mother before launching into the entire story. Like I was a little kid picking berries, I again understood the importance of being part of the process; nothing tasted better than the success brought to fruition by hard work.

I shared with my mother how good my pie tasted and how it was too bad that she’s over a thousand miles away or I’d share a piece with her.

“I bet it’s good; better than that store bought crap. That stuff?’ll kill you,” she scoffed in disgust, but hidden among that disgust, I could also hear a small morsel of pride.

Better, indeed. I only hope I can do it again….

“我今天做了个派。”

这句话再简单不过，只有七个字。但就是这句简单的话，让我那位颇为骄傲又烟不离手的妈妈昨晚在电话那头乐得喘不过气来。

我的童年是在一帮做派的人中度过的。那时候，妈妈总是拖着我和妹妹一起出门，沿着附近公路两旁的沟渠走好远，一路摘野草莓。在我的记忆中，摘野草莓的日子总是宁静而酷热的，妹妹会不停地抱怨说又渴又无聊。

我们三个人就这样一起慢慢地沿着公路边走边采摘。路过的汽车司机会冲着我们又是按喇叭又是挥手——我妈妈会借机站直身子，让弓久了的背歇一歇。

离我外婆家一个街区远的地方有一个樱桃园。樱桃园所在田地的主人是个老头儿，他总是让我外婆进到樱桃园里摘樱桃，想摘多少，就摘多少。我的外公是个木匠，为了回报老农的好意，便帮着老农修理东西，或制作小件家具。

同样，妹妹、妈妈和我三人又被派出去从树上采摘深红色的樱桃。我记得那也是个大热天。我们穿过没有播种的田地，朝果园走去，地里的牛乳草疯长着，我最喜欢把它们摘在手里把玩。我像剥玉米一样将牛乳草剥开，然后把黏糊糊的白色草秆儿扔向妹妹，而她总是大声尖叫着，一路跑到田中央那棵孤零零的树后面躲起来。

我们回到外婆家后，外婆就开始干活了。她用筛子从那个绿色的塑料盆里舀出面粉，然后让过筛的面粉像下雪一样洒到厨房的桌子上。在桌子上揉最初的面团时，她的双手又揉又按，在铺有面粉的桌子上利索地来回移动。外婆用木制擀面杖将面团擀开。如果面团太粘，外婆会再往桌上撒少许面粉。整个过程像是为了配合音乐而设计出来的舞蹈一样，但厨房里放的可不是音乐，而是——“大家好，美国的听众朋友们，我是保罗·哈维……”外婆手上的婚戒总是沾满面粉和面糊，把派放进烤箱烘烤以后，她得花一个小时用牙刷把戒指清理干净。

像纸一样薄的派皮儿做好以后，外婆会小心翼翼地把它放在专门放派的玻璃盘上，为它修边。与此同时，妈妈一直在给樱桃去核。我从来不记得自己见过将樱桃混在一起调馅儿的情景——我只记得它们被放在派盘里，而这个时候外婆正忙着做盖在馅儿上的另一层皮儿。

虽然派的美味全靠里面的馅料，但皮儿也同样让人着迷。

我从来没能掌握做皮儿的诀窍。我的外婆会做，妈妈会做，就连我的表弟乔伊都会做，可唯独我不会。这么说也许还不够准确。应该说，截止到昨天晚上为止，我不会。

我公寓的厨房里没有桌子，只有一个约一平方英尺的厨房操作台。我以前试着做过派皮儿。我擀面团，面团却像胶水一样黏在擀面杖上。我还没来得及处理，面团就变干变硬了。反正我做过的派皮儿不是太厚就是太薄，不是太湿就是太干……

昨晚，我把客厅里的咖啡桌腾出来，用来当厨房桌用。我当时想，要是我把面粉弄得满地都是，那也没什么打紧，上帝就是为了这个发明吸尘器的。我关掉电视，带着外科医生对细节的那种专注精神，擀出了一张完美的派皮儿——两次都是。

然而，令我非常沮丧的是，当我把派皮儿放在装派的盘子——这个盘子之前从未进过烤箱——底部时，我才发现自己没有买任何能够包进皮儿里的馅料。瞧，我做皮儿失败的次数太多了，以至于我都忘了做完皮儿之后还有一步。

“我没有烘焙配方，我只是把东西都混在一起罢了……”外婆在电话里告诉我。显然，她的话对我毫无帮助。我又打给我妈，但直到我完成整个艰巨的任务时，我妈才接了我的电话。

于是，我做了一件任何现代购物者都会做的事：跑到食品杂货店，拿起水果罐头看标签，从里面寻找派的馅料配方。这招果然没有令我失望：樱桃罐头的标签上写着一个美妙的小配方，用料包含杏仁精和桂皮粉。好极了。

我匆匆跑回家，担心温度毁了我的派皮儿。我变得疑神疑鬼，因为我从没有像这次这样接近成功。这就好像跑马拉松一样，自己明明已经看见终点线就在前方，却在最后关头瘫倒在地。

不过，命运之神终于向我垂青。我快速按照配方拌好馅儿，将馅儿铺在皮儿上，馅儿上再盖一层皮儿，把派迅速放进烤箱，然后开始40分钟的等待。我一边等一边来回踱步，像一个父亲等待孩子的诞生。我强忍住想打开烤箱看看的冲动，因为妈妈常说，那会极大地破坏烤箱里的温度，还有导致烤糊的可能。

当烤箱的蜂鸣声响完，我打开了烤箱门。我的派就在那儿。皮儿没有起泡，也没有裂开——外表呈金棕色，散发着诱人的奶油香。

我等了几个小时，派才冷却下来。在打电话给妈妈之前，我先尝了一块。你有这样的体会吗？把某食物放进嘴里，一口咬下去，立刻满口生津，口水多到差点要淌到自己身上。没错，我的派尝起来就是这个味道。

“我今天做了个派。” 我告诉妈妈说，然后将整个过程都告诉了她。像小时候摘樱桃一样，我又一次体会到了参与到过程之中的重要性；没有什么比通过辛勤劳动换来的成功果实味道更香甜的了。

我告诉妈妈我的派有多么美味，告诉她真遗憾她远在千里之外，不然的话我会与她一起分享。

“我相信它一定很好吃，肯定比商店里买来的强。商店里那种东西只会坑死你。”她满是嫌恶地嘲笑道。但是在这种嫌恶背后，我听出了妈妈的一丝骄傲。

自己做的确实更好吃，真的。我只希望下次还能成功……

1. wheeze [wi?z] vt. 喘息，困难地呼吸

2. chain-smoking：一根接着一根抽的

3. ditch [d?t?] n. 沟，沟渠

4. scorchingly [?sk??t???li] adv. 灼热地，激烈地

5. honk [h??k] vt. 使喇叭鸣响

6. odds and ends：零碎的东西，琐碎事

7. husk [h?sk] n. 壳

8. sifter [?s?ft?(r)] n. 筛子

9. sprinkle [?spr??kl] vt. 撒

10. smack [sm?k] vt. 拍打，拍击

11. knead [ni?d] vi. 揉，捏(面团、湿黏土等)

12. rolling pin：擀面杖

13. smattering [?sm?t?r??] n. 少数，一点儿

14. choreograph [?k?ri?ɡrɑ?f] vt. 为……设计舞蹈动作

15. Paul Harvey：保罗·哈维(1918~2009)，美国广播公司的著名电台播音员，主播《新闻与评论》(News and Comment)等，是一位富有传奇色彩的播音员。

16. crust [kr?st] n. 馅饼皮

17. strike that：表示收回之前说的话

18. almond extract：杏仁精

19. cinnamon [?s?n?m?n] n. 桂皮粉

20. paranoid [?p?r?n??d] adj. 多疑的

21. the Fates：命运三女神，她们掌管着人类的出生、与死亡等命运。

22. salivate [?s?l?ve?t] vi. (过量地)分泌唾液

23. drool [dru?l] vi. 流口水