The Pie's the Thing

For ‘Pie-eyed' Pilgrims All Roads Lead to ROCK SPRINGS

Pie. Of all the world's desserts, none can satisfy like a great piece of pie. Of course, none can so disappoint as a poor piece of pie. There you are, ready to dig into a flaky, buttery crust filled with juicy fresh berries eating slowly so every crumb counts, licking the fork after every little bite so none of the juice escapes and if it isn't exactly how you remember good pie well, there's just no sense in going on. Pay attention the next time you're in a restaurant that tries to pass off poor pie. Watch all those barely eaten pieces going into the garbage. There's good reason for Americans' finicky fixation on pie. And it goes far beyond our taste buds. Pies hold a cherished place in our dessert repertoire. Think about it. When have you ever seen a pie served at a wedding or bar mitzvah or college graduation? Bet it's never. No, we traditionally use cakes for those festivities because we want a sure thing. And there's nothing sure about a pie. There's hundreds of ways a pie can be ruined, and every baker has experienced most of them. It takes a special touch to turn out a good pie, and that's one measure of its special value. But there's something more. Pies aren't for public events. They're for family. Grandma baked pies. Mom baked pies. Pies so good they would have won ribbons at the state fair if Grandma or Mom had needed such testaments. If anything touches the soul of our pie adoration, it is this echo of home and love. But Grandma's probably gone, and you don't live with Mom anymore, and you're never more aware of those losses as when you bite into a crummy piece of pie. I was thinking about all that when I went to bake pies with Penny Cooley.

Years ago when I first saw the handpainted sign at Rock Springs Cafe, I thought it was just a gimmick. “Penny's Pies. Worth the drive from anywhere.” That's what the sign said. But I'd long since given up on restaurant pies; even those in big-city restaurants that tout themselves as pie palaces. Yet there I was at a wide spot in the road off Interstate 17, about 40 miles north of Phoenix, standing in front of an old-fashioned roadside restaurant. “You're gonna love this place,” my friend Mary Margaret promised as we pushed through the screen door. “And they have the best pies!” Mary Margaret is a tiny bit of a thing who doesn't touch meat and isn't much of a cook. So I don't rely on her much for culinary advice. But the secret her body never shows is her finely honed sweet tooth. This girl knows her pastries. Still I was mighty skeptical. “My gosh, this place looks like a scene out of “Little House on the Prairie,” I told her as I looked around the cluttered antique dining room. “But I never bother with store-bought pies.” Mary Margaret insisted I bother. For nearly a decade since, I have bothered. My cars since have all worn an invisible bumper sticker that says “I brake for Penny's Pies.” I almost never pass Rock Springs either on my way north or my way home to Phoenix without a fix of pie. It's a regular stop on my Arizona tour for out-oftown guests. Even my mother, a fine pie baker herself, declared this a winner. So I was pretty jazzed that Penny said I could come bake with her. Well, that's not exactly what she said. To quote her exact words over the telephone: “No. I've got this tiny bakery, and there's no extra room for you.” I've had to do some pretty fancy talking in my time to convince reluctant sources to talk with me, so I launched into some verbal pyrotechnics. I'd like to report it was my charm and my clever lines that made her change her mind. But both she and I know she relented because I begged. So here I am, at 9:30 on a Thursday morning, and Penny is just finishing the browning on the tallest meringue pie I've ever seen. The swirled peaks are a good eight inches tall, and the very sight of them defines the word “delicious.” Now that's exactly what I want to learn or, more precisely, exactly what my mother made me promise I'd learn Penny's secret for tall, hold-its-shape, and never-collapse meringue.

I learned long ago that meringues vex even great bakers. I've watched my mother measure meringue ingredients precisely - a detail she finds unnecessary for nearly everything else - and still not get it perfect. I have aunts who completely gave up on meringues, unable to face the constant fail-ures. And when I think about it, I've never seen a single cooking show on television that even attempted a meringue pie.

"Wow, that's a beautiful pie," I tell Penny. She doesn't seem particularly impressed with my praise. But then, she's been at work since 5 A.M., and she's already turned out 20 perfect lemon meringue pies.

"What's your secret?" I ask.

She gives me one of those I-don't-believe-it looks and says, "It's a four-egg meringue. Beat the hell out of it."

Oh, great, I say to myself, the lady doesn't want you here in the first place, and right away you're asking her for secrets. I know better than to push.

I also realize my first job of the day is to stay out of the way.

One look around the kitchen had proved that Penny wasn't lying. This is a tiny bakery. The entire room is only about 16 by 12 feet, and one whole wall is filled with huge ovens. The center of the room is dominated by a large table that provides the work surface. Only narrow aisles re-main to move around in. It's clear that when the ovens are fired up, there's only inches of space in which to maneuver the hot pies.

But baking is done for the day. Now Penny starts the second phase of her Wednesday-through-Sunday schedule: the fruit pies that are assembled today and then baked first thing tomorrow morning. Her assistant, Tammy Powers, has hauled out huge tubs of apples and cher-ries that will be transformed into delicious filling.

"I'm from Michigan, and Michigan has the best apples," Penny offers. "I get my cherries from Michigan, too." But she buys her blackberries and rhubarb from Oregon, her wild blueberries from Maine, and her peaches from California.

It was in Michigan that Penny Cooley started baking pies. She'd work all week in the office of a trucking company, and bake pies all weekend from Friday night to Sunday night. "It was my hobby - something I did and couldn't stop. I'd call my mom and say, 'What's wrong with me?' and she'd say, 'It's inbred in you.' Some people just aren't bak-ers. I'm Hungarian, and for me, it's natural."

In fact Penny thinks her obsession with pies came from her mother, Margaret Arkose. "She had six kids and lost six, and every time she headed for the hospital, she baked tons of pies so it's her fault!"

In 1985 Penny moved to Arizona and chanced on the baking job at Rock Springs. In those days, boysenberry and blackberry pies were offered, and customers went through 100 of them a month. The first month Penny was on the job increasing the offerings and insisting on all her own recipesshe baked 492 pies and sold every single one. Everybody knew they had some-thing special. The rest is culinary history.

In 1990 she made 14,000 pies. In 1991 she made 14,819. In 1992 she made 18,597.

PENNY'S

PROSPECTOR PIE

One 9or 10-inch unbaked pastry shell 3 eggs ¼ cup lightly packed brown sugar ½ cup butter or margarine, melted ½ cup chopped walnuts ½ cup chopped dates ¼ cup flaked coconut 1 tablespoon lemon juice In a medium bowl, beat eggs with a wire whisk, add sugar and mix well. Mix in butter. Add rest of ingredients and combine well. Pour into pastry shell. Bake 30 to 35 minutes at 350 degrees or until center is firm.

In 1993 she made 19,291 pies, including: 1,896 lemon meringue, 1,840 blackberry, 1,660 apple, 1,546 pecan, 1,513 rhubarb, 1,160 "Jack Daniels pecan," and 1,120 cherry.

Her busiest months are April (making 1,889 pies in 1993), May (1,872), October (1,866), and November (1,733.) Her easiest month is January, when she makes only around a thousand or so.

Five days a week, she'll make a minimum of 200 pies, or as many as 400, "depending on what's needed," she says.

As you might guess, Penny doesn't eat many pies herself.

"Blackberry and lemon are my favorites, but I don't eat them much any-more," she says. "Once in a while, I'll take home a blackberry pie and stop and get ice cream, and then I'm good for another year."

The big jacketed steam kettle is bubbling with apples and cinnamon and all the other touches that Penny dumps in with such confidence. "I used to stir the fillings on the stove for hours, but finally I said get me a steam kettle or I'm gone," she recounts.

The big kettle, cooking like a double boiler, helps prevent scorching and holds enough to make 75 ordinary pies. But Penny doesn't make ordinary pies. She'll get about 50 out of this batch because she insists that every pie have four heaping cups of filling.

While she's cooking away, her assistant is thawing out the frozen pie crusts. Frozen pie crusts?

"I used to make my own, when I wasn't making so many pies, and I prefer my own crust, but there just isn't time or room in this kitchen," she explains. One look around convinces you this isn't an excuse.

I have to admit, things were going along swimmingly. Penny might be able to bark with the best of them, but she's really a softy, and if she takes a liking to you, she's downright chatty. We've been talking away for a couple hours by now, and I'm feeling more confident about this quest for the perfect meringue. "Now about that meringue," I venture.