Raunchy peered over at the cold stone top of my table. He pointed at it and said "I NEED that." I obediently cleared the surface as he demanded.
With precise swiftness, he measured 250 g of soft white flour and 225 g of creamy cold butter and shoved both into the wide gaping space in my freezer. After several taunting moments, 10 minutes of the most excruciating length to be exact, he pulled them back out with quick disregard and threw the white powder and thick slabs of butter against the hard stone surface.
With great vigor, he pressed the two partakers together in conglomerate bliss, fusing firm and loose and loose into firm until the two were fused in heated reverie. With a sly smirk, Raunchy thrust his rigid finger deliberately in the soft tender center of his subject, lingering to run his finger along the yielding flesh of the freshly created cavity. When the depth was of satisfactory size, he let out a satiated sigh and slid his dirtied finger out…put it up to his eager nostrils, and deeply inhale the rich aroma. He trickled cold water into the hole and sealed the opening shut.
He grasped the whole load and packed the mixture into a delightful tight ball. Raunchy retired his precious knob of dough into the refrigerator for 30 minutes. After a excruciating wait, Raunchy pulled the dough out of my chilled cave, and delicately placed the tender dough on the counter. He grabbed his long rolling pin, and elongated the dough outward, up and down along the stone-cold countertop. The kitchen trembled as he worked the dough, back and forth. He said we were conceiving layers of butter and flour, a tender package to wrap around the apple filling. Raunchy teased me again. He split the dough in half and threw the worked dough back into my ice chest. Another 30 minutes passed.
Meanwhile, Raunchy grabbed my firm apples, all three pounds, and sliced them on my barren countertop. He carefully mixed 1/4 cup flour, 1 tsp cinnamon, and 1/3 cup sugar, whispering that he loved making a mess in my dirty kitchen. He pulled the dough out again, and slammed it on the counter. Once again, he flexed his arms into the timbered rolling pin, expanding the dough outward into a 10 inch disk. Raunchy grabbed the flexible dough, hung it over the glass pie plate, and loaded it with the juicy apple filling, nearly overflowing. He rolled out the other half of the dough, and drape it over the overflowing filling, sealing it off with his fingers on the edges. With his bare index finger and thumb, he worked his way around the rim, pressing and crimping on the dough. With a firm grip on his sharp knife, he cut five slits in the top crust. He said they were essential to let out the stuffy steamy warmth from its core. He removed his pastry brush from his pie kit, and smeared egg wash over the top crust.
Raunchy opened the oven door, preheated to 425F, and thrusted the pie into its deep chamber on the lower rack. 25 minutes later, he opened the oven door, and the room filled with the sweet innocent aromas of apple and cinnamon. The heat was too much he said, and he lowered the temperature back to 350F, and placed the pie on the top rack. Another 30 minutes, Raunchy said. Wait until the apple bubbles out of the slits, he said. True to his words, Raunchy pulled the pie out, an hour later, and the warm gooey juices were gushing over the firm baked pastry top. Satisfied, Raunchy smiled, and asked if I had any icecream, a perfect partner to pie. =)