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When I used to make pie I spent a lot of time rolling out dough and thinking about little jokes that I thought my bosses at Hoosier Mama Pie Company should put on T-shirts: “Crimp my style,” for instance. “How we roll.” Et cetera—there were other, better ones, I swear. For a while my only shift was on Friday night (I worked for a couple other bakers at the time), making pie for the morning farmers’ market and a few cafes that the company sold to. The rolling station, such as it was, was set away from the rest of the kitchen so I usually was there by myself, which was ideal because of WBEZ’s lineup of Friday-night programming: Sound Opinions first, then This American Life. I stood there rolling dough, 40, 50, 60 shells a night, and listened. Eventually I’d drift back to the rest of the kitchen and help put fruit pies together; late at night, toward 1 and 2 AM, we’d package the pies and go home. I’d be covered in flour and something like raspberry or cherry juice, both of which look like blood. HMPC has its own storefront now; this was in Kitchen Chicago, the shared-use kitchen, which has since moved, too. It’s been replaced in its old Ravenswood Manor space by a pie shop: First Slice.
