Making Homemade Ghee (and Making Butter Dairy-Free!)

I am grateful for you, readers, all puns aside.  I started this blog how many years ago having no idea that people from around the world would be reading my cooking and eating thoughts and adventures. And now when I write, instead of thinking I am writing to my mom and sisters as I did in the beginning, I find myself imagining who some of you may be, and I write to you.  And my mom and siblings.  Ye all have made my world expand, and it's wonderful.  Thank you.

Speaking of ghee, Chef Reiton has been yearning to make ghee (pronounced "gee" like "ye" hence my horrible puns) for an eternity.  Ever since he bought his cookbook titled "Oriental Step-by-Step Cookbook" (seriously), he has wanted to make this high heat-tolerant oil used in pan frying, sautéing, etc.  When he found out a few months ago that ghee is also paleo, he had a batch made within the week.

Having used up that batch a few weeks ago, I made another batch the other day.  I tried to document the melting process as best I could for you.  Here's the step-by-step process for making about 1 2/3 cups of oil from one pound of organic unsalted butter.  (This process takes awhile, so it's a good project to do while you are making something else in the kitchen.)

Unwrap four sticks or one 1-pound block of unsalted organic butter in a 2-quart saucepan. Set the pot on a burner set to the lowest heat setting.  As the butter begins to melt, you will see the whitish milk solids separate from the clear, yellow oil.  DO NOT STIR.

Soon the milk solids will rise to the surface, and the oil will begin to simmer.

As the oil simmers, the milk solids will begin to brown.  Some of them will settle to the bottom of the pot.  This is okay; the oil will be strained at the end.  

When the solids are a nice nutty color, strain the oil through a mesh strainer lined with several layers of cheesecloth.

The result? An oil that is extremely heat tolerant and free of milk solids that tastes deliciously of butter.  

Pour your ghee into a jar, let it cool, then cap it and store it in the fridge.

Now, for my veteran ghee makers out there: did I overdo my browning? I don't remember my husband's being as dark... It tastes good; I just want it to be "right."  Let me know if a comment if you have the answer.

Good luck to "ghee" all!

Missing Food...and You: Reflections on a Kitchen Remodel

We are nearing the end of a kitchen remodel (kind-of).

Which I got acute appendicitis in the middle of. 

Is that a coincidence? I don't think so.  ZERO kitchen = eating out all the time = ONE UNHAPPY GUT.

All I can say is: I MISS FOOD. I miss cooking with my husband. I miss the way my house smells after dinner. I miss my spice drawer. I miss trying new recipes. I miss eating boatloads of vegetables. I miss shooing my dog away from the stove because he can't keep his nose away from the pot. I miss feeling healthy. 

If there is one saying I can adopt during this massive redo, it is this: you don't know what you've got until it's gone. 

With that being said, I am excited—extremely—about our redo. We have done it rather quickly, and considering that we gutted the 100+ year old kitchen to the bones, rather cheaply, too.  It has been a month since we started, and we are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. I promise to do a big ol' post when we are done, including the whole before-and-after hoopla. (Although those of you who have read around here in the past may have already seen pictures of our gold-flecked laminate counters, our three different styles of wallpaper, and our stained, peeling '80's vinyl flooring. Not to mention the hung ceiling. With fluorescent lights. Yeah, and you whine about your kitchen...). Anyway, stay tuned. I think you all will be pleasantly surprised. 

AND I swear that regular posting will soon be back. The school year is almost over, so I will actually have time again.

Sigh. I can't wait. And with a new kitchen.

The Norwegian Codfather—Chambersburg, PA

Okay, I feel like a jerk as I write this post...

You see, I thought I had written this post over a year ago because I'd been dreaming about this little shop for a year.  AND I told some very important people that I'd written it!  They probably think I am a total liar... Oh, geez.

So, my aim is to make it up to them.  (Tom and Pauline, this one's for you.)

Tom and Pauline, for those of you who have not had the delight of meeting them, own a small European grocery in my old hometown of Chambersburg, PA.  No offense meant to my heritage, but when I heard that they existed, I really did not know what to expect.  A European grocery? In Chambersburg?

But Luke, the fabulous chef from Cafe d'Italia just around the corner from them, recommended them to me for some fantastic prosciutto he had used on a white pizza.  The name of their establishment? The Norwegian Codfather.  I had to check them out...

OH, dear Lord, was I glad I did! The treatment! The finds! A deli case stocked with sausages, meats, and cheeses you can't find anywhere else: a sharp provolone that will take your lasagna from good to glorious.  Smoked bacon that I put on ice and drove for 13 hours so I could have some at home for breakfast. Caramelized goat cheese that you can shave into divine little curls and serve for dessert with fruit.  And then there's the licorice.  Licorice like you've never had before.  REAL licorice.  There's even one that is salted.  (My dad finds excuses to go into town just for that!)  And all of this Tom and Pauline offer you to try before you buy. You will even find yourself tasting items that you would never have asked (or thought you wanted) to try--because Tom and Pauline know: the foods they sell are superb, and all it takes is one taste...

On top of all this foodie wonder, The Norwegian Codfather sells random European baking and cooking ingredients that I've read about and wanted to try but have never been able to find without ordering it online.  Like pearled sugar for sprinkling on a braided lemon bread.  And rosewater for cocktails.  Juniper berries for a braised meat dish.

It really, truly is a shop you must explore, at least once.  And here's the ultimate reason why: after last year's visit, I absolutely HAD to go back this past Christmas break, and--can you believe it? They remembered me.

THAT, my dear foodie friend, is what Life is about.  Amazing food made even more amazing by the relationships we build with the people we share it with.  Even if it's just for an hour once a year.

**UPDATE as of Jan. 2016**

I am so sorry to see that the Norwegian Codfather has closed.  I made the discovery a little over a week ago when I tried to visit while back in PA.  Tom and Pauline, you will be greatly missed.  I hope that your closed doors have opened up a new adventure for you elsewhere! Best wishes to you both!

The Primal Eggplant: Tweaking Eggplant Rollatini

If you are a vegetable lover like me, you probably are pretty open to trying mostly any vegetable out there.

If you continue to be like me in such matters, you are still--no matter your openness--wary of the eggplant.

In defense of myself, I am (mostly) a believer in the food adage: "In-order-to-know-if-you-really-like-something-you-have-to-try-it-10-times." So, eggplant and I keep trying.  Yes, I discovered the amazing coal-roasted eggplant this summer, which I truly did love.  But, if you've been watching the news as of late, it's not necessarily grilling season up here in Wisconsin.

In perusing my David Rocco cookbook, Made in Italy, the other day, I came across this winner of a recipe (approved by two teenage boys--and I didn't even lie about what it was!): Involtini di Melanzane e Provola.  I adapted it for my primal husband, which is the version I've posted below, but you can use flour instead of the almond meal if you wish.  I do encourage you to give it a try the primal way, though.  I think you'll be happy you did.  The slightly nutty flavor was one of the things the boys liked about it.

Ingredients:
1 medium eggplant
Kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper
1 cup almond meal (I used Trader Joe's) in a pie plate
1 egg, beaten in a pie plate
Extra virgin olive oil for frying (amount will depend on the size of your skillet; you want it a good 1/4 inch deep)
12 slices of smoked provolone

As thinly as you can, slice the eggplant lengthwise.  I got about 12 slices, and that includes discarding some that were just wonky (I'm not very good at slicing thinly and evenly).  Salt the slices heavily and let rest for half an hour to draw out the water.  Pat dry.

Get a plate and a pile of paper towels ready.  Heat the oil in a skillet until it is almost smoking.

Dip a slice of eggplant in the almond meal, coating both sides, then dip it in the egg, coating both sides.  Let the excess egg drip off, then lay the eggplant in the hot oil and fry for about a minute until golden brown.  Flip and get the other side golden.  Remove to a paper towel to absorb excess oil.  Repeat for the rest of the eggplant slices.

When you are done frying, lay a slice of smoked provolone on each slice of eggplant and roll up, lining the rolls up on a warm platter.  Season with fresh cracked pepper.  If you wish, spoon some of Beppe's tomato sauce over the top.

Delizioso! I promise!

Reflections on Teaching Strangers How to Cook

I've been having these experiences lately where I can't keep my mouth shut.

It happens almost every weekend at the grocery store.  I'm minding my own business, doing my shopping, when someone standing near me picks up a vegetable that I just learned to prepare a new way.  Or they will stand staring at an item with a giant question mark floating above their head.  And I just....can't.....help it.  The teacher in me wants to help.

And so I open my mouth and:

"Have you ever tried roasting that?" (speaking of cauliflower)

"Do you know what's really good with that?" (dates) (and the answer is "bacon")

"My mom used to make those for us all the time..." (a girl wanted to know if I knew how to cook artichokes)

And this week, it was regarding steak.  An adorable old man was hunched over the bargain meat case with me, staring with a critical eye at the New York strips.

"That's a high price," he commented and pointed to the "$12.99/lb" on the package I had in my hand.

"Oh, but it's on sale!" I joyfully corrected, and pointed to the "$8.99/lb" at the bottom of the sticker.

"You're gonna go for it?" he asked.

"I can't help it," I said.  "Sometimes you've just gotta have steak!"

He laughed.  "I never seem to cook it right," he said and watched as I picked up a thick marbled steak.

I could tell he wasn't sure about the choosing process, so I hunkered down next to him.  "Get a nice thick one," I said and pointed.  "That one's good.  It's got some good fat streaked through the meat.  Do you have a cast iron skillet?" I asked.

He nodded as he picked up the steak I had pointed to.  "Okay," I said.  "Salt your steak really well."

Another laugh.  I could tell he was thinking of what his doctor would say.  "No, really," I said.  "Lots of salt.  Then get your pan really hot.  Do you like your steak rare?"

His blue eyes looked into mine.  I realized that we were now huddled shoulder-to-shoulder over the meat case.  "Mmm, more medium-rare," he said.

"Okay.  Five minutes a side, then let it rest for a few minutes.  Best steak you will have ever had,"  I promised.

He laughed again and then smacked me in the arm with his steak.  "You sound like you know what you are talking about," he smiled, and then wandered off to his cart.

Do I? I thought as I watched him go.  I guess I do, to a degree.  To some I'm a culinary moron.  But to others—the ones I want to reach? I guess it feels good to hear them say that.  And it feels even better to know that I've helped one more person take those first foodie steps like I took.

And still take.

Once Bitten: A Foodie's Year-End Reflection on Happiness

In three hours the calendar rolls over to the year 2014.

Two thousand and fourteen.

In my childhood, I had a hard time imagining the year 2000.  And, yet, tonight—tonight, 2013 is ending.  An entire year gone.  An entire year lived, breathed, consumed, exhausted.

That's how I want to live every year of my life.

True, tonight I sat at dinner alone, eating a rib-eye steak pan-roasted in bacon fat, accompanied by baby kale sauteed with garlic and lemon and a glass of 49er Blend red wine.

But as I ate my dinner, I reminisced.  I thought about my recent trip to PA to visit family for the holidays.  I smiled as I remembered the grin of my new baby nephew.  I conjured the face of my husband and felt my heart swell then melt at the thought of him.  My eyes wandered over the Christmas cards scattered rather haphazardly over the bookshelf, and a myriad of memories and wishes leapt to mind.

I am so happy, I thought.  I am happier than I've ever been in my life.

I want it to always stay that way.

Life is for living and giving and growing.  And for a long time, I did none of that. (An unpublished blog would give you an earful...)  But then entered two things.  First: Food.  Food that relentlessly caused me to fail, accept failure, and try again.  Food that made me want to not shrug my shoulders and accept Life for what I thought it was, but to yell, "Damn it! NO!" and make it what I wanted it to be, even if I had to try again.  And again.  And again.

Soon I learned something about myself.  I could cook.  And I had grown such a thing called Confidence.

It is that confidence that landed me in a seat beside a pilot deadheading to Boston and a flight that changed my life.  Enter thing number two: Chef Reiton.  My foodie soulmate.

I guess it is also that confidence that drives this blog, and, I hope, not arrogantly so. It's just that I see so many people checkout at the grocery store with carts of processed, frozen, boxed, shrink-wrapped,  expensive, tasteless food, and I want to take them by the hand and lead them to the produce section.  I want to educate them on how easy it is to eat like a snob and still be healthy and feel good to boot.

 Maybe that happens with this blog.  I would love to hear it if it is so.  But in truth, the creation and sharing of food brings me happiness, and writing about it even more so.  And that, my dear readers, is something that I want to continue and develop as long as I have a kitchen to cook in.  No, I take that back.  As long as I have anything to cook on.  Who knows what the future may bring.  All I know is this: five years ago I was bitten by the food bug, and there is no going back on the food love.

And so, dear reader, here is my wish for you: I hope this year finds you growing more in love with yourself and your food, and that you find yourself a better person for it.

Cheers to 2014!

Lessons on Using Bones for Stock

Last weekend we had my good friend/former student, Anna (now of Anna Rosie Bakes fame!) and her wonderful significant other, CDR, come up for the day and just hang and eat and drink.  We had a fantastic time, even though our dog was running around in a make-shift diaper the entire time.

After snacking on bacon-wrapped dates and poufy gougères

and imbibing several glasses of Campari-laced cocktails, we settled down for dinner.  The main event of our main course was a frenched pork loin roast, "the crown roast of pork" my butcher's assistant declared.  We used a delicious recipe from—you guessed it, BA.  It is a cider-brined pork roast in which you brine the pork for hours, dry rub it for a few more, then roast it with veggies to browned perfection.  (If you want to make a great mistake, try brining it with unfiltered cider vinegar by accident.  I think I liked it even better!)

But this post is not to be about the roast.  It is about the bones that we saved from the roast after we devoured it that night and the next day.  Bones that called to me yesterday morning through the gray drizzle on the windows and the wet leaves plastered to the driveway.  It was a day to hole up and do some winter kitchen prep: stock.

I've always been scared in the past to make soup and stock, but my food reading over the past year has really pounded into my head that when it comes to the history of peasant foods, like soups and such--there really wasn't a recipe.  It was whatever you had on hand thrown into a pot and (usually) cooked low and slow for a long time to yield whatever tasty treat your random items were going to give you that particular time.  The poor couldn't be picky, and so every time the results were different.

I decided that I was going to be okay with that and not let my anal side be bothered by the fact that I wasn't going to be able to exactly replicate this stock if I really liked it.  So I did what the peasants did.  My stockpot was soon loaded with the rib rack, old carrots, old celery, a couple halved onions, some sage and thyme that were on their last legs, a couple cloves of garlic, and a lot of salt and pepper.  I filled the pot up with water, set it on the stove over low heat, draped the lid almost on the whole way, then let it all go for hours.

Sigh. It's just delightful to me that this:

can turn into this:

Oh, what yummy soups these are, just waiting to be made this winter....  And all for the five minutes of prep time that it took to rinse my ingredients and throw them in the pot and the other 10 that it took to strain and jar the stock.

Good grief! I've got to do this more often!

A Foodie's Fallish Philosophy on Her Cooking Life

I've just come in from putting the dog out.  The fog is beautiful this morning.  It's not the dark, murky fog that's been creeping around all week long.  It's the kind that hovers and glows, its whispery essence highlighting the faintest of frost on the fallen leaves, inspiring deep, gulping breaths of the fall air.

My senses and imagination go into overload in such moments.  Such transcendent beauty, for me, makes time stand still, and I want to put my hand out and hold it there.  It is the freest that I ever feel, being trapped in those moments.  

And then they are gone, like waking up from a dream, and I am left with the same drive every time: bless the beauty of this world then go out and enjoy every fricking moment of your life.

And so here I am, writing you all.  You, my readers, are what I love.  You and the food that I write to you about.  It's not a choice that I make.  It just is.  Time has transformed not only food for me, but it has transformed me through food.

Michael asked me last night over a dinner of cottage pie, "Do you eat to live or live to eat?"

"Definitely live to eat," I replied.

He laughed.  "My health teacher would say that that is exactly what you should NOT do."

I smiled.  I knew what that question was supposed to mean.  It implies that living to eat is being obsessed by food and not caring about the health factors of any of it, eating "whatever you want" because you only go around once. For me, it conjures images of 300-lb. individuals surrounded by hordes of food, like Ben Stiller in the end credits of Dodgeball.  

Eating to live implies making intelligent and healthy choices about what we eat, therefore extending our quality and length of life because we aren't putting things into our bodies that are toxic in one way or another.

My food philosophy, I came to realize as we talked, is politic cooking with abandonment.  If you've read the posts on this blog over the past year, you know that I am very concerned about the healthiness of what I eat.  I understand fully that what goes in either does good or bad, and the amount of damage caused is something I will have to live with.  But that doesn't mean that I'm stuck with bran muffins and broccoli the rest of my life.  Although I love bran muffins and broccoli...  

My point is: being healthy does NOT mean that you can't absolutely love the food that you are eating, nor does it mean you can't constantly think about food. I am always thinking about the next meal because I love everything that goes into cooking and experiencing new foods.

And when it comes to sweets, The Millstone around the psychological neck of anyone starting to think of "eating healthy," here's the deal: for me--and this is truly for me, in accordance with my personal philosophy--that does not mean that I never eat something "unhealthy."  Chocolate chip cookies are not a healthy choice to eat every day.  They are not a healthy choice to eat every week.  But if I make a batch of cookies once a month to share with friends, and I eat a few of those cookies, savoring the buttery, chocolate-y warmth of every bite that makes my soul sing--that is a psychologically healthy choice for me.  Because telling myself "no" forever is just not going to work for me.  And--I could be wrong, but--eating a chocolate chip cookie or two once a month most likely is not going to shave off months of my life.

So there it is. My thoughts on my cooking life. I guess I live to eat to live.  

Oh, how fog can lead to philosophy...

So...what's yours?

Cafe Selmarie — Chicago (Lincoln Square), IL — A Restaurant Recommendation

Tucked on the corner of a cute little pedestrian street in Lincoln Square, Cafe Selmarie is a delightful place to spend a late morning, catching up with your BF after months of being out of touch.  I recently spent a summer morning here for brunch with Julissa, one of my dearest friends and a foodie soulmate.

I ordered a sandwich, and Julissa ordered dessert.  Our thoughts?

The fried green tomato BLT: PERFECT.  Crunchy coating on the tomatoes, crisp bacon, soft brioche, tangy aioli.  Delish.

Julissa's chocolate lemon torte? Meh. We both found it quite bland.

It looked awfully pretty, but it was missing something.  I almost felt like it could have used a pinch of salt.  It just finished off flat.  The chocolate could have been a bit more heady, too.

Definitely would go back, though, and give other baked items a try.  And to have that BLT again...

A Slice of Summer: The Last Fresh Peach Pie Recipe You Will Ever Need

If there is one thing above all others that I miss most about PA (besides my family), it is without a doubt the peaches.

Not many people realize that Pennsylvania's orchards are loaded with peaches, not just apples, and they are the biggest, juiciest, most peachy peaches I have ever tasted.  Granted, I have never eaten a Georgia peach off the tree—but the Georgia store peaches I have had have never compared to Pennsylvania's huge, warm, tree-ripened beauties that I ate as a kid.

With the summer coming to an end here in good ol' Wisconsin, I can't help but find myself longing for peach juice running down my arm and my tastebuds screaming with peach-induced happiness. I've tried peaches a couple times from a couple of sources this summer, and they were all awful.  Pulpy. Foamy. Dry. Flavorless. Hard. Gag.

And then the other day I was sitting beside a co-worker as she was biting into a delicious-looking specimen.  "Where did you get that?" I asked, rather intensely.

"Piggly Wiggly," she slurped.

Guess where I stopped on the way home? And, wowzers, were they good! Still not up to PA snuff, but so so so much better than anything I've had for years.

So, today, when our friends Joe and Marie invited us over for dinner at the last minute (as only good friends do), the first thought that popped into my head was: PEACH PIE!!!

I based my recipe off of Cook's Illustrated's Foolproof Pie Crust and their Fresh Strawberry Pie. Chef Reiton helped whip the crust together (and I really do mean "whip." It takes less than 5 minutes to make, then it just chills, gets rolled out, and then chills in the pie plate a little bit longer while the oven heats.).  I prepped peaches for the glaze and the filling, my mouth watering all the while.

If you are lucky enough to have amazing peaches available, make yourself a treat this weekend.  Make yourself a fresh peach pie:

Shell Ingredients and Directions:

1 1/4 cups (6 1/4 oz.) all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 Tblsp. sugar
10 Tblsps. unsalted butter (1 1/4 sticks)
3 Tblsp. cold vodka
1 Tblsp. ice water

In a food processor, combine only 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, salt, and the sugar, then pulse together with a few 1-second pulses to blend.  Drop in the cold butter, cut into 1/4-in. slices, and process for about 10 seconds.  The mixture will look like curds the size of cottage cheese.  Scrape down the sides and the bottom and redistribute the mixture evenly around the bowl.  Sprinkle the remaining flour over the top, then pulse about 5 or 6 more times.  The dough will come together into a ball, and then redistribute itself around the bowl.  Dump the mixture into a medium bowl.  

Mix together the vodka and ice water.  Sprinkle the dough with the mixture, then take a rubber spatula and start smashing, folding, and flattening the vodka-water into the dough, pressing the spatula down into the dough to help mix in the liquid.  It's going to look like it's not going to do anything at first; just give it time and keep flipping, smashing, folding, and pressing; it will get there.  The dough is going to resemble Playdough when you are done. (If it looks too dry, sprinkle in the tiniest amount of ice water--like 1/2 tsp. at a time).  Gather the dough into a ball, then dump it onto a square of plastic wrap.  Lay another piece of plastic on top, then flatten the ball into a 4-inch disc.  Wrap it tightly in plastic wrap and lay it in the fridge for at least 45 minutes (you can do this up to 2 days in advance).

Meanwhile, make your peach filling:

8 large ripe peaches (your thumb should readily sink into the flesh when you squeeze the peach)
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 cup. sugar
2 Tblsp. cornstarch
1 1/2 tsp. No Sugar Sure-Jell (pink box)
1 Tblsp. fresh squeeze lemon juice

Halve the peaches, then peel and pit them.  Cut each half into four wedges, then cut each wedge into 6 chunks.  Weigh out about 14 oz. (about 2 cups) of the peach chunks, then puree them in the food processor until they are completely smooth and juiced with no little chunks (a random big chunk or two is okay, as long as the rest is totally smooth). You will need 1 3/4 cups of puree when you are done for the glaze.  You may have to adjust this a bit.  The rest of the peaches you can cover and put in the fridge.

In a medium saucepan, whisk the sugar, salt, cornstarch, and Sure-Jell.  Whisk in the peach puree, then heat the mixture over medium-high heat, stirring constantly (really be careful to scrape the edges and corners of the pan so it doesn't scorch), until it comes to a full boil.  Boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly.  You will see the glaze turn from opaque to translucent.  Take it off the heat, then stir in the lemon juice.  Let it cool completely.

Now go back to your pie crust: heat the oven to 425 degrees.   Have a rolling pin, aluminum foil, pie plate, pie weights (use a bag of dried beans of you don't have ceramic beads) and a piece of aluminum foil ready.  Take the dough out of the fridge, generously flour the countertop, and plop your dough disc in the middle of it.  Flour your rolling pin, then roll your dough out to about 12 in. in diameter, flouring your rolling pin as needed.  (To roll evenly, start each roll in the center and press with even pressure as your roll to an edge.  Always roll two opposite sides one after the other.  For example, if I roll straight up, then I roll down next.  If I roll to the right, then I roll to the left. If I roll to 2 o'clock, I roll to 8 o'clock next.  Get my drift?) When your dough is evenly rolled out, place your rolling pin about 3 inches from the dough's edge, flip the edge up over the top of the rolling pin, then roll the pin backwards, wrapping the dough around the pin as you roll.  Use a bench scraper to help work the dough up off the counter if it sticks at all.  Take your pie plate, place the dough-wrapped rolling pin at an edge of the plate, and unroll the dough into the pie plate.  Adjust the positioning if you need to, then gently ease and press the dough down into the plate.  Refrigerate the plate for about 30 minutes to firm up the dough again (you can skip this step if you are really short on time, but the constant refrigeration keeps the butter chunks hard and will make your dough much flakier at baking).

Take a pair of scissors and trim the excess crust to about 1 inch of the edge of the pie plate.  (It is always better to have a bigger edge than less, so be careful not to get too close to the edge of the plate.)  Take the excess and flip it under itself, working your way around the plate.  Now press the edge down in whatever decorative pattern you want.  You can use the tines of a fork; you can push it down with your thumb at intervals; you can squish it with a knuckle on your right hand into the crevice of your left hand's pinched thumb and pointer finger.  Get creative.  Now prick all over the bottom and sides of the dough with a fork; this helps air escape that is going to heat and try to bubble up in and under the dough.  Put the crust in the fridge to firm up for about 15 minutes, then take the aluminum foil, gently press it into the pie plate, and dump in the weights.  Place the crust in the oven for 15 minutes.  Carefully remove the foil and weights, prick any bubbles that have formed with a fork, and continue baking the crust for another 5-10 minutes until the crust is nice and golden.  Cool it completely on a wire rack.

By this point your glaze should be cool.  Take the rest of the peaches out of the fridge, and dump them into the glaze, folding to coat every piece with your amazing homemade concoction.  Pour the filling into your cooled pie crust, then put the whole pie in the fridge.  Let it firm up for at least 2 hours, but no more than 5.  The CI guys say it will start affecting the crust at that point.  They also say to eat it all right away.  Darn.

Cut the pie into large slices, serve with freshly whipped cream, and savor those peaches as long as your will power possibly can.