Pitting a quart of cherries is a lot of work, is what I learned yesterday. Well, "learned" may not be the best word, for I'd figured that would be the case, but still, I didn't realize how much time it took to cut these beautiful, ruby-red orbs in half and dig out their pits embedded in the soft, translucent flesh. The tart cherries were so juicy that the bright-red liquid ran down my fingers, past my wrists all the way to my elbows. I had to periodically stop the work and go wash myself in the kitchen sink.

We'd picked up the tart cherries at, yep, you've guessed it, the Green City Market. One of the farmers said it was their first cherry crop, but I couldn't believe it; the market was literally piled with cartons of plump cherries of varying shades of red. The morning light that danced on their glossy, round surface was a photographer's delight. If they'd been only starting, I couldn't imagine what it'd be like when the cherries are in full season. Eying at the beautiful display of tart cherries in a stand, Patrick reminded me of the Dufour Pastry Kitchens' frozen puff pastry dough we'd picked up a few months ago at Whole Foods.

"Do you want a cherry pie?" I teased asked him.

"Cherry pie! Yummm!" was his answer. Watching the familiar, tastiness-induced smile spread over his face, I finally got over the apprehension that I might ruin the special pastry dough that carried the hefty price tag of almost $12 a small package. (I'm a much better--and experienced--cook than a baker.) But the day of fear was over. The dough needed to be used before it went stale anyway, so now was the time. Cherry pie it was. We picked up a carton of tart cherries, wandered around some more in the breezy market and went home.

I didn't bake the promised cherry pie right away. For one thing, we went out to a prairie preserve in the afternoon, and I was exhausted by the time we got home in the evening (though I did cook dinner, using the fresh produce from the farmers market, for which I gave myself a pat on the back). Sunday was not that different, though our destination was more urban than natural. By Monday, though, I was restless; the cherries must be quickly losing their sweetness and flavor even in the fridge. The pie had to be made. I couldn't waste both the pastry dough and the cherries. I put aside whatever premonition I had over my not-so-great baking skills, set up a pitting station by the computer monitor, put on Mr. Incredible, and started pitting. (The animated feature turned out to be a mediocre choice for the task; it relied more on visual information than I'd remembered it, and I quickly lost track of what was going on in the retired hero's world as initial dialogs were supplanted by loud thuds, thumps and ka-booms.)

As the milk for the custard slowly warmed up on the stove, I studied the dough package. The ingredients list was positively promising: the first ingredient was butter (which was verified by the 120 calories coming from fat out of 170 in one serving). The rest were wheat flour, water, salt and lemon juice. Very clean. When the custard was done, I unfolded the pastry dough on a floured cutting board and cut them into four large rectangles. I'd said "pie," but it was going to be turnovers (for my lack of patissiery skills). I slapped on the custard on one side of each rectangle and placed halved cherries in neat rows on top. Some of the egg whites left from making custard, which only calls for egg yolks, was used to seal the folded pastries. Even with the day's cooler temperature, the pastry dough behaved surprisingly well. It didn't stick to the cutting board, knife or my hands, and didn't lose its shape as quickly as it could have. This seemed even more surprising when we bit into the finished turnovers--I had no idea how a dough so buttery and delicate could stay so obliging for such a long time.

When they came out of the oven, I couldn't believe my eyes (and my nose): the pastries looked like they'd been baked by a professional patissier, with its sides almost bursting out in golden strata, little dribble of hot-pink cherry juice still bubbling here and there. And most of all, the fresh, buttery aroma of the pastry shell itself. I regretted my decision to bake them when Patrick was out at work--it would have been such a treat for him to inhale that fresh-off-the-oven goodness. When he came home, though, we shared a turnover, reheated in the toaster to perk up the slightly moistened shell. We had one each this morning, for a sumptuous breakfast. I'm guessing that we'd have to fight hard to decide who's going to get that one remaining turnover on the counter. They turned out to be as tasty as they looked. You might believe it if I told you that I got them from some expensive, fancy bakery tucked away somewhere in a up-and-coming neighborhood. But then again, they did come from an expensive bakery (in New York, of all places)--the dough was professionally and expensively made, the cherries grown by dedicated local organic farmers, and the eggs and milk in the custard also organic, if not local. Each turnover probably cost us about $4 or so just for the ingredients. But was it worth the price? Absolutely. I'd pit those cherries again and again, and stir gallons of custard till my arms hurt, if only to fill that amazing pastry shell.

...I have to admit, though, I'm in complete awe of those people, amateur and professional, who not only pit their cherries but also make their own pastry dough from scratch. That's just a lot of work!