I’ve been fantasizing about fried pie ever since we had an appointment for glasses last week. Across the street from the optometrist, like a beacon amidst the strip malls, I saw giant bright red letters that announced “Fried Pie.” Since I saw the sign I’ve been consumed with the thought of annihlating the hell out of one of these pies, which I’m going to go ahead and assume is a Southern thing. Part of the reason fried pie is on my brain is that I’ve been simultaneously training for a half marathon and trying to eat right in order shed my body of the lingering jelly that has clung like to my hips since I birthed wee Laila. I’m trying to get this done by her 2nd birthday, which gives me about three
weeks. I need a deadline to do anything. My point is, I ran 10 miles today and I decided that was a definite occasion to rip into a fried pie. And I did. Oh yes, I so did. I sucked down a cherry one before pilfering half of Laila’s apple fried pie. What? She’s too little to eat all that pie. Mark got a pepporoni pizza fried pie. The red-letter sign belongs to Arbuckle Mountain Fried Pies in northwest Oklahoma City. This was a very good first choice for a first fried pie experience. With melt-in-your-mouth crusts enveloping gooey sweet fruits and other comfort food innards, fried pies are, quite simply, the bomb.
In other news, tonight is bottling night. Our first batch of beer has been fermenting for 10 days. Mark snuck a sip and thought it tasted weak, which is of concern, since we don’t like weak beer. My job is to put the caps on with a red cap doo-hicky thingy. He has done a lot of work sanitizing and boiling up some sugar water siphoning but I’ll let him tell you about all of that. He’s also been on the phone with his Chicago friends, who’ve brewed so much they’ve moved on from bottling to kegging. Our virgin batch of capped beer has to sit for something like two to three weeks to carbonate. Here are some pie and beer photos from today: