Mr. Scott, my high school English teacher, was a ▇▇ and a bully. And now that I was a substitute teacher in a high school English class all I could think about was his mousey face and sharp tongue. As I watched a child call their parole officer with a resounding chorus of “▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇,” I wondered what Mr. Scott was doing. He surely remembers me and would be shocked to learn of my double life as an educator. Double life because I no doubt scammed my way into the public school system. If they knew what kind of student I was in Mr. Scott’s eyes, I’m certain they’d question my credentials. But like they say, the transcripts tell a story.

Speaking of stories, I recently stole a book from the High School I work at. I’m not much of a reader, so naturally I felt like a poser when I convinced myself I would read the novel over Spring Break. I pick up the story and by the start of page 1 I’m reminded that my dad died this morning. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know. I got a text message from my Aunt Jenny: “Virgil didn’t make it.. funeral Sunday. I’m so sorry sweetie.” That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it was yesterday.

The old people’s home is in Pulaski, about seventy miles from Roanoke, I’ll take a one o’clock flight and get there in the late afternoon. That way I can be there for the vigil and come back tomorrow night. I thought to ask my boss for 2 days off and then remembered I don’t have one. But if I did have a boss, he wouldn’t be too happy about it. I’d even say “it’s not my fault” and he wouldn’t say anything. Then I’d think I shouldn’t have said that. After all, I didn’t have anything to apologize for. He’s the one who should have offered his condolences. But he probably would the day after tomorrow, when he sees I’m in mourning. For now, it’s almost as if my dad weren’t dead. After the funeral though, the case will be closed, and everything will have a more official feel to it.

I caught the one’o clock flight. It was very hot. I ate at the restaurant, at Shoney’s, as usual. Everyone felt very sorry for me, and the waitress said, “You only have one father.” When I left, they walked me to the door. I was a little distracted because I still had to go up to Jenny’s trailer to borrow a black dress and grab a watch she wanted me to have. She lost her father a few months back, my papaw, Jerry. That’s when I suddenly realized: I must bake a pie. If I don’t bake a pie there will be no dessert at the service and if there is no dessert then what’s the point even. Pie! That’s it. That will work. I rummage through Jenny’s pantry for some flour. She’s out of butter. I decide to walk a mile to Food City and get some. It’s still hot out. Okay now I have the flour and butter.

If there’s one thing that instills fear into the hearts and minds of American cooks, it’s pie dough. I don’t really know if that’s true or not but at one time, I was one of those people, and it was all because they were a mystery to me. What makes them flaky? What makes them tender? And most importantly, how come my pie dough used to bake up like a pliant piece of leather instead of a buttery and delicious crust?

What I’m after: The kind of crust that’s substantial enough that it doesn’t sog-out from a juicy filling but tender enough that it flakes in your mouth into buttery shards. A crust with substance, but not chew. A crust that divides along deep faults into many distinct layers separated by tiny air spaces and that cracks when bent. A crust that is never leathery nor pliant, but not so tender or crisp that it crumbles instead of flakes. And of course, it should have a deep butteriness coupled with a balanced sweet and salty flavor.

But let’s be honest– easier said than done, right? For many people, making pie dough is a crapshoot. Sometimes it bakes into a perfectly flaky crust, but other times it comes out tough. Sometimes you need just a couple tablespoons of water, sometimes a full 1/2 cup. What gives? Turns out that the science of pie dough is really not all that complex, and once you get a grasp of what’s really going on in between those delectable layers, baking it into a perfect crust becomes a matter of smarts, not luck.

I stop and wonder what Mr. Scott is doing. And then I remember that my dad died this morning. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know. But either way, Mr. Scott is still a prick, my dad is dead and this pie crust is perfect.

amuse-bouche is organized by Marissa Dembkoski.

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Tags: Apparatus Projects, Cellar Door Provisions, Chicago, Logan Square, Marissa Dembkoski, Megan Capps, Megan Capps: amuse-bouche