When I was 7 or 8 years old, my mother bought the most beautiful cherrywood china hutch, lacquered and polished to such a glow that the morning sun glinting off it would hurt your eyes. It was huge, reaching almost up to the ceiling, and as wide as two little Monikas, laid end to end. In this hutch, Mom stored all her most precious things: her Franciscan Desert Rose china, her matching green and pink table linens, her best silverware, her crystal wine glasses and her fine lace tablecloth. She also stored family heirlooms — antique china and etched glassware from her grandmother as well as a few keepsakes from her father, who died when she was 13.
Every morning as I ate breakfast, I would gaze at her treasures. Sometimes, if I promised to be very careful, she would let me take out a thing or two and inspect them up close. I dreamed of having my own china hutch one day where I could display all my most beloved things.
Flash forward 35 years. I didn’t own a house, much less a china hutch. My dishes and linens were stashed in various cubbyholes around our rental home. I displayed a few things in an old white bookcase, but it didn’t remotely approach the glory of my mother’s cherrywood hutch. I had fully resigned myself to hutchless living when my birthday rolled around and lo and behold, there was a generous check from my mother. “Go buy a china hutch,” she says.
And I did! An acquaintance sold me a honey-colored hutch with plenty of drawers and shelves protected by glass doors. It was small enough to fit in our tiny dining room but still big enough to hold my inherited tchotchkes and tableware, which by that time included my mother’s Desert Rose set and her lace tablecloth, in addition to a whopping 17 teapots. (I’ve since downsized to 14. Sacrifices must be made.) It was the last birthday present my mother ever gave me; a few months later, she died of ovarian cancer.
But this is not a sad story, as I see it. I love the hutch fiercely and even more so the lovely things it contains, passed down to me from my mother and both my grandmothers. To my childhood self, my mother’s china hutch was a symbol of accomplished adulthood and domestic mastery. The gift of my own china hutch felt like my mother’s final blessing on the life I’d made for myself since leaving home. (We can debate another time whether simply owning a possession is an achievement; sometimes it’s more about what the possession represents.)
My dishes are all patterned pieces from several different sets, along with a mishmash of linens and tableware. I mix them up and use them often because I refuse to save them for special occasions. Every day is a special occasion, in my opinion.
Those are the dishes you see in my photos. They don’t match and the patterns clash but I love them and I love to share them with you. A reader correctly pointed out that the food would be shown to better effect on plain plates with single-color linens and I totally agree, except I don’t have any and they wouldn’t fit with my multicolored, pattern-crazy style. I’m sure I make it even worse by adding flowers and knickknacks and what-not. But the food you see is how it actually looks in my house, moments before it’s eaten, usually by me.
Today’s special occasion is impossible pie enhanced with fresh citrus and coconut, which looks very pretty indeed on my maximalist tablescape. It’s called impossible pie because it makes its own crust from Bisquick baking mix, which sinks to the bottom and top during baking, leaving a middle layer of soft custard and a topping of toasted coconut. It’s also impossibly easy: just toss the ingredients in a blender then pour into a buttered pie plate.
After baking, it’s got to cool completely in order to set, and I mean completely. I recommend cooling and then chilling it in the refrigerator for at least an hour, if not more. The first piece I tried to cut (while the pie was still a touch warm, inadvisedly) fell apart in chunks but after chilling for a while it firmed up. It didn’t make perfectly triangular slices but I figured I could just call them “rustic.”
However, my pie mishaps didn’t end with messy slices. I sampled the pie immediately after taking pictures and it had a funky tang but I thought it might have been because I used grapefruit, which can have a bitter aftertaste. I served a wedge to my husband, who looked excited but then made That Face after he took a bite. He pushed the pie around on his plate and then peeked underneath, as though expecting to find scorpions.
“I’m sorry, this is terrible,” he said, overcome by a rare bout of directness.
This pie situation had gone way beyond bitter grapefruit. I couldn’t figure it out. All my ingredients were so fresh, except I looked at my Bisquick box and saw that the expiration date was July 2021. Ah, well. I hope the raccoons appreciate all those expensive eggs.
Now that I’ve shown you how not to make impossible pie, you should give it a whirl.
Celebrate the occasion with fancy dishes. Even if it’s been a terrible day, your cherished china will make you happy, especially if you can get someone else to do the washing up. Bon appetit and good luck! You’ve attained domestic mastery.
Citrus Coconut Impossible Pie
- 4 eggs
- 1 cup sugar
- 1 tablespoon fresh zest from any citrus fruit
- ¼ cup freshly squeezed juice from the zested citrus
- 1/2 cup Bisquick baking mix
- 1/4 cup melted salted butter
- 1 tablespoon vanilla
- 2 cups milk (or substitute coconut milk)
- 1 1 /4 cups shredded unsweetened coconut, divided
Preheat oven to 350 degrees and butter a deep-dish pie pan. Put all ingredients in a blender and blend on high for 30 seconds to a minute. Pour into the prepared pie plate. Sprinkle remaining ¼ cup of coconut on top. Put it in the oven very carefully, because the liquid custard is extremely sloshy. Bake for 40-45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the center of the pie comes out clean. Let cool completely then refrigerate until fully set, at least an hour. Serve plain or with whipped cream.
