Reprinted from my Live Journal, as dated December 20, 2008. More thoughts at the end of the post.

Pasta what?

Pusties? Pasties? Do you mean pastries? What are you talking about?

This was my end of a conversation I had with Lisa 5+ years ago when I went to her home to help her do some holiday baking. Now, let me be perfectly clear here. Lisa and the kitchen were never meant to be friends. She was a disaster in the kitchen and baking was even worse than cooking. So, when she informed me she was going to bake and might want some help, I can’t stress to you the amount of trepidation swimming through my veins.

But, I was a loyal friend, and one who would take any opportunity for a good time, and imagining Lisa in the kitchen trying to measure brown sugar was enough to get me out there. I arrived after she had started. She was covered in flour. Her curly hair had taken her head hostage, covering it from every angle, in every possible tangle. The kitchen floor and counters looked as though an entire 5lb. bag of flour had exploded, and there were smears of chocolate in odd places – on cabinets, by the cat’s bowl, smudged on a potato chip bag. I held in my laugh because when Lisa was in a dither, as she most definitely was, she was not to be laughed at.

To her face anyway. We all learned to turn aside, sneak out a giggle and proceed with great caution.

So, I did. “Um…whatcha making?”

“Pastashots.”

And the conversation continued as mentioned above. I never could figure out what in the hell she was saying and she just did.not.have.the.time. to explain any of it to me, a poor, uneducated non-Italian. There were pusties to make for her dad and hell be damned anyone who got in the way. Her story was that he liked hers best.

Which? I found really hard to believe. But, she was busy. She was baking. And she was actually pulling out some interesting looking little doo-hickeys from the oven. I wasn’t allowed to touch a thing, always greeted with the nearly screeching, “These are for my DAD!” but I stood by and watched until she finished the things and we could move onto something a little less daunting. Like…chocolate chip cookies. Even a little WASP like me knew how to make those.

As the evening unfolded, the pusties cooled and she reluctantly allowed me to try one. Chocolate, god bless her. A pastry, similar to a pie crust, only about 3″ in size filled with chocolate or vanilla custard. How bad could it be?? Not bad at all. It was delicious. Rich, almost too much for one sitting, but delicious. I wasn’t allowed to take any home to share with my family b/c, let me repeat, “”These are for my DAD!” but, I remembered my one and only pustie. Even if I didn’t really know what the hell it was.

Fast forward through time. No more baking fiascoes with Lisa. I never heard of the pustie again. But then, this fall, while thinking ahead to the holidays and wondering how I was going to do it without her, I remembered that night. Her hair. The flour. The chocolate. The passion with which she was making these undefinable treats for her daddy. And I made a date with google to figure out what in god’s name they really were.

They’re really pasticiotti. Simply, an Italian pastry filled with creamy pudding. Real pasticiotta, or pustie for short, are made in pustie tins. Only. No tart pans. No god forsaken cupcake tins. No, pustie tins. That you can only get in Upstate New York.

I had a mission. I was going to make these things. They couldn’t be nearly as hard as Lisa made them out to be and…my idea grew. I’d make them and take a good batch over to Lisa’s dad. I got my tins from a darling restaurant supply place in Utica, NY and spoke with Mr. Flihan himself – the owner. They got those tins to me in record time and Thursday, I began my adventure. I brought down my notebook of letters I’ve been writing to Lisa, began a new one and then, began making custard. I cooked and I mixed. I rolled and I filled. I cooled and then baked and then, with the support of Nathan and Abby, I ate.

You can find a slew of pictures if you click this one.

And I did it. They were perfect. Absolutely perfect. I updated my letter to Lisa telling her all about it and today I went to see her parents. Lisa’s dad can be stoic to say the least, so I was a bit nervous. And if he says So And So’s are the best of something, there’s really no sense in trying to change his mind. But, I thought…this is a special situation. And if I can give him, even with only one bite into that sweet shell and cool, soothing middle, one more moment with his daughter, then I’m going to do it. So I did. And he did. And we visited for about an hour. I got to catch up on all of Lisa’s family’s activities these past months and share with her mother about how hard this season has been for all of us. We laughed, we dabbed away a couple stray tears, but mostly we just reveled in the shared memory of our Incompetent Chef, Lisa.

I’m so grateful I took time out of baking for my family and did this. It was for me, mostly. But, I’m also thrilled I could bring a bit of Lisa’s silliness back into the her family’s Christmas. And, I do have a few I kept here at home. Every time I bite into one, I can hear her screeching in passionate anxiety for perfection, “These are for my DAD!”

Yep, Lisa. They’re for your dad. If you don’t mind, however, I’ll make them for him from now on. He seemed to be really pleased.

A year has passed and today, Nathan and I made another batch of pusties. We burnt the custard the first time and the dough for the vanilla ones has been a bit of a bother. Maybe these really are for her dad, because I decided I won’t be making a delivery this year. These are just for me…but, they’re not going as well. No mind – they’ll be delicious and I’ll commune with her as they bake, as I enjoy and as I fling flour all over every corner of my kitchen. I miss you, Lisa. Desperately.