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I spend far too many of my waking hours wishing I were somewhere else. A somewhere else that serves homemade pie. In service of my hope to begin years of Pie Pilgrimages, I am taking a tip from the Pie of the Month Club, which has compiled a Pie Map, pinpointing the exact locations of places that make our nation great. (My version is far more low-tech, of course, since I haven’t figured out a way to offer you a

From the Jersey Turnpike CurvyMama’s on her way home to D.C., watching the New York City skyline fade from view in the bus window. We’ve still got traces of pie dough under our fingernails from our morning’s work at Bubby’s. We can hang onto it for just a few more hours, to stretch out the experience of pie immersion we’ve had here for the past week. But then the bus will drop us off in

From New York City I haven’t completely lost my mind. But this did happen today: in Bubby’s underground kitchen, the two new pies I encountered today spoke to me. That’s because they were the two pies that my daughters would create with a magic wand if someone said, “Design the pie of your dreams.” (And we actually did this; that’s why Sweetie Pie Hannah and Sweetie Pie Sara are on

From New York City Just yesterday I was telling you how I learned to be master of my graham-cracker-crumb domain: I started to get the hang of shaping the very independent-minded crumbs into a crust. This is how most of us think about making a cookie-crumb crust. We think of combining the crumbs with butter and pressing them into place. But who makes those crumbs to begin with? Most of us grew up answering that quest

From New York City CurvyMama’s created a new holiday, and you can be the first to celebrate with me. I got my wish today when I spent a chunk of the late afternoon pressing graham cracker crumbs into pie tins. Go ahead and scoff, if you dare. Those of you who think this sounds easy have another think coming. I have tried this at home, and I end up with a too-thick-and-hard brick wall of crust, or with a bunch o

From New York City Getting out of bed this morning with sore feet and an aching back didn’t bode particularly well. But I tried to think of it as a sort of happy hangover from my first day hanging out with the pastry staff at Bubby’s, and I headed out again from the West Village to embark on my second day. The fact that I’m back in my rented room now, waiting for the double dose of Ibuprofen to kick

From New York City Day 2: Send a masseuse. Please.

From New York City A guy on the 1 train uptown at 5:30 p.m. motioned me that I had something on my face. I checked my reflection in the subway car window, and I had a huge schmear of flour across my cheek. I was also smiling. The schmear and the smile pretty much sum up my day. It began in the polar opposite way most of my days begin: standing in the dark on the loading dock of a restaurant in lower Manhattan, with a

From New York City I’ll be up and out around 5:30 a.m. tomorrow, cruising for a good coffee on the way to Bubby’s in Tribeca from my room in the West Village. Chef’s jacket is tucked into my bag, ready to go (the less I have to do at that hour, the better). I’ll have my pie charm on a chain around my neck. Wish me luck as I try to find a place in the kitchen that doesn’t annoy the hell o

From New York City We’re here. We’ve gotten the whirlwind lunch-rush tour (damn, bum timing) of Bubby’s underground labyrinthine kitchen complex, where we couldn’t shake hands with one of the pie gals because she was, you know, holding a pie in each hand. I am posted at the moment on a bench outside because the restaurant is waaayyyy too crazy to be bothered. That’s okay… exactly w