Penngrove Poem

Penngrove

The Legendary John Cornelius Gains writes poetry every Sunday Morning and the gentle hero of Wednesday, mr. Myron the Moron slits open his own belly with loud kindness.
Monday the doors are quiet and only a little rumble can be heard from the Pub.
Tuesday I don't know what happens because I stay away.
Thursday is this or the other, with a rush people running from their homes to the bars and booths. Friday Petaluma and San Francisco drinking cocktails in glasses too small for their liquor. Fresh Radishs and burnt-just-right- porkchops.
Saturday a blur or pies and fresh lemon juice in cuts, smoke behind the bar and pipe dreams of patios.
Sunday again and the Legendary John Cornelius Gains has a new poem for us all.

Perfect Pie Crust

Let me tell you something about pie crust...it's easy.
it's hard. It's just awful unless it's perfect, it's just fine unless it's awful. How stupid must a soul be to go into business making pies from scratch. Well I'm stupid and I love it. I cannot put my mind to the calculation required to give you an actual number of pies made, but suffice to say it is indeed in the hundreds and hundreds.
The best thing is to have everything cold! and to be in a hurry about it. Be bold my baking friends! add your ingredients quickly and briskly. Don't love your pie dough too much or it wont love you at all. Like all great things it's just a matter of not paying too much attention.