I’m having so much fun that it takes me until the food is starting to go cold to get back to my investigation.

At the bakery Jessalee is always engrossed in her work and eating day-old pastries at a tiny table by herself. Here she’s playing hopscotch all over the table to make sure she gets a chance to talk to everyone. No amount of watching her is helping me figure out her love life, though. I’m going to have to start asking questions.

The person on my right side is so deep in a rant about cat insurance that it feels rude to interrupt. On the other side of Jessalee’s empty seat is a twenty-ish person wearing a striped blue T-shirt and a look of total abandonment. Maybe they’re relatively new to this, too. Maybe they’re still figuring it out. Maybe they’re looking around at everyone and trying to see where they fit — and in the process, noticing how everyone else fits together.

I slide over into Jessalee’s seat.

“How long have you been coming to polyam brunch?” I ask. “Did Jessalee invite you here, too?”

“Oh!” They look up at me. They have the kind of dark, shiny hair that flops over their eyes and makes it seem like they’re always peeking out from behind a hedge. “No, I have been here many times. And yes. She did invite me.”

“Does Jessalee have any partners right now?” I scramble to add, “I’m not asking for me.”

“She is not seeing anyone,” they say in a weary way that makes it obvious there’s more to that story. “How do you know Jessa?”

They’re allowed to use a nickname for her? Hmmm.

“I work at the Proud Muffin,” I say, beaming. I can’t hold back the shine that comes with those words — but then I remember that the bakery might be in trouble, and it’s my fault. Guilt spreads like the stain from the guacamole I dropped on my shorts.

“Ah. I thought maybe you were a writing friend of Jessa’s?” Their words have a soft accent, an upward lilt.

“I write recipes,” I say impulsively. I like the idea that someone here assumes I’m creative.

“Even better, because you can’t eat a book,” they say, and their laugh seems spring-loaded, ready to burst out at any moment. “Javi. They/them. Your name and pronouns?”

“Syd. She . . . they?”

I’ve been thinking about it a lot. The truth is that “they” doesn’t feel perfect to me either, but maybe it’s not any one pronoun that’s the problem. Maybe it’s the assumption that one of them is going to fit all the time.

This feels like a good place to try out something new.

We angle toward each other a little, and it feels like an island of privacy tucked among everyone else talking in pairs and small groups. This might be the best chance I get to ask questions. “So. Jessalee. Do you think she’s got her taxi light on?” Javi wrinkles their nose. I explain the concept in a quick, condensed way. “I think one of my friends at the bakery might be interested.”

“They should join us next time,” Javi says in a generous tone. Then their voice gets a little darker, a scattering of clouds over their sunny demeanor. “I’m not sure Jessalee wants to date anyone at the bakery again.”

“Again?” I mumble over a cold, soggy bite of enchilada.

Jessalee was dating someone at the Proud Muffin? Marisol? She’s in the right age range and she was alone at the last community night, which would scan with a recent breakup. But we work together in the kitchen every single day. Marisol might not be the chatty and forthcoming type, but I would have to miss a lot to miss that.

“Wait, who was Jessalee dating?” I ask in a needy whisper.

“We were together,” they say wistfully.

That’s why they looked abandoned. They aren’t nervous and lonely in a general sense, but missing Jessalee specifically. I glance over and find her still bouncing around and talking to everyone.

Everyone but Javi.

“You don’t work at the bakery . . .” I say faintly.

They’ve started up again, though. “Jessa and I met through a friend who knows I love her books. She does not get involved with fans, usually, but we began to talk, and we had so many things to say to each other. It felt like Bergamot and Ambrosia discovering they were connected by the magic of the great palate gods of old.”

I have no idea who Bergamot and Ambrosia are. Or who the great palate gods of old are, for that matter. But Javi talks about Jessalee in a sweet, sad way that makes it clear: they still care about her.

“You read her books?” I ask, my curiosity edging forward.

“You don’t?” they ask, their hair flopping around in shock. “And yet you’re friends with the author of the best queer foodie fantasy series in all the lands.”

“I . . . am?”

They hold up their glass. I think they must be twenty-one, at least, judging from the way they wave it, and the slight hint of alcohol mixed with sweet mango. “You’ve never heard of The Sweet Sorcery of Ambrosia P. Jones? The P stands for Patisserie.”

I spit a laugh. A bit of virgin mimosa comes out with it.

Spilling out the content of my pockets, I find her business card with the meeting time on the back. Authoress of love, magic, etc. I’ve got a much better sense of what etc. means now. It’s sugar.

“You think the books sound silly,” Javi says. “They’re not. Well, sometimes they are, but Jessa’s humor, it’s one of the best parts —”

“I’m laughing at myself,” I explain. “Really, I should have known.” When I guessed that Jessalee was camped out at the bakery writing romance novels, my imagination hadn’t put all the pieces together.

Right as I’m thinking about the Proud Muffin, Gemma bursts onto the porch. People flock to her, giving hugs and pouring out praises for her bright yellow jumpsuit and her makeup — she’s reigning queen of the bright blue lip.

Jessalee is the only one stuck to her seat, watching Gemma’s entrance with the dismal look of someone who used to share her spotlight.

Javi gently makes their way through the crowd and gives Gemma the warmest welcome of all, complete with a lingering kiss. This is Gemma’s space, and she’s my coworker. I find myself looking away out of a potent combination of embarrassment and politeness.

I expect Javi to rearrange the seating so they can squeeze in next to Gemma, but they come right back to me. They seem committed to their conversation with the awkward newcomer, which makes me like them.

I can see why Jessalee and Gemma would like them.

“So all three of you were together?” I ask.

“We started as a V,” Javi explains. “Gemma and I knew Jessalee. Through this group, Gemma and I met each other.”

“You became a triad?”

Javi nods. “I thought everything was perfect between the three of us. It takes a while when relationships change, and there’s a lot of talking. But as you can see, I like to talk. Jessalee is so good with words. And Gemma, you must know her well.”

I nod — but the truth is that I wish I knew Gemma better. I’ve been so focused on W and baking. When I’m done fixing all of this, I’m going to spend more time with everyone. Of course if I don’t get Vin and Alec back together soon, I might not get the chance to know people like Gemma and Jessalee better. By the time I arrive at this thought, I feel as downhearted as Javi looks.

“I thought we were all in the same place. Together. Happy. But Jessa wasn’t sure. She broke things off with both of us.”

With a little help from my brownies.

After what happened, I might have been stupidly looking for pairs of people, but now that I see the shape of this relationship, I’m catching up quickly. Jessalee, Gemma, Javi: this is what I need to mend.

There are so many questions I want to ask, but they would be way too personal and prying for a first talk over tortilla chips. When did Jessalee start to pull away? Did Javi or Gemma have any guesses about why? The one thing I know is that Jessalee showed up the day we had the scones at Barton Springs. She wanted to find some kind of fresh spark.

So, when did she lose the sparks she had?

I watch Jessalee’s love interests as yet another round of chips and tomatillo salsa are passed around. Even across the full length of the table, Gemma and Javi are tossing each other little looks of adoration. Jessalee is ostentatiously chatting with someone else.

She’s making a pretty big point of not caring.

I see it happen though — the moment when Jessalee runs out of salsa and Gemma reaches over several people with a nearly full dish. She waits until Jessalee grabs it, then grabs her eyes and doesn’t let go.

Now that I think about it, Gemma always made herself busy at the exact moment Jessalee came to the counter. I’ve always assumed that was just a factor of how busy we get during the morning rush, or maybe that Jessalee wasn’t one of Gemma’s favorite regulars.

I have been reading this romance novel all wrong. And apparently it’s about baking wizards anyway.

In unrelated news, Gemma keeps eyeing me across the table. She probably wonders if I’m trying polyam in the wake of my breakup with W, and if W knows, and if that’s maybe part of why we broke up, and oh, wow, this is getting complicated really fast.

“Is it complicated?” I ask. “Being in love with two people?”

“It takes work, but so do all good love stories,” Javi says. They can’t seem to help adding, “That’s one of the things Ambrosia learns on her quest to find the world’s last secret flavor.” They sigh at Gemma’s sadness when Jessalee turns her back.

My heart pinches tight on their behalf.

“I brought pie!” I shout.

All of a sudden, I’m up and grabbing Gemma. “Can you help me?” I ask as we pass through the restaurant, back into the parking lot. “I brought a little more than I can carry and . . .” I open the car door, its window cracked, revealing a half dozen pies on the back seat. Gemma clears her braids off one shoulder and gives me a worried stare. She hasn’t even seen the ones in the cooler yet.

“Are you okay, Syd?” Gemma asks.

“What?” I ask.

She picks up the lemon chess pie. “When Marisol gets upset, like really upset, she can’t stop baking. I know we don’t know each other as well, but . . . you seem a lot like her.” She pauses. “In that way.”

I line my arms with pies, as many as I can carry without gravity getting involved.

“I’m great,” I say, a lie the size of Texas — the only state that constantly tells you how big it is. I’m not going to be great again until everyone who ate my brownies is back in love, Harley and I can finally make out, and the Proud Muffin is safe. “I just didn’t know how many people would be here and . . . I overbaked!”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, with a tight-pressed smile. “You really, really did.”

I look down at all the pies we’re carrying, and for some reason my eyes are drawn to the peach strawberry basil. It’s got a fluffy crumb on top, like the perfect muffin-pie hybrid, but it’s more than that. Something about it is calling out to me, letting me know that the magic inside is what Jessalee needs.

As we head back onto the patio, I ask Gemma to swap pies with me. Peach strawberry basil for plain old peach. She looks at me like I’ve lost the last bit of sense that I have. “Can you offer a piece of this one to Jessalee? Please?”

“Why?” Gemma asks as I slide the peach strawberry basil pie on her overburdened arms.

“It’s the best pie here. And she’s always so nice to me at the bakery,” I say. “It would mean a lot.”

“Why not give it to her yourself?”

“Well, you two are the only people I know here and the whole point is to meet new people, right?” Gemma shakes her head and shimmies the peach pie onto my arm. “I’m not trying to date . . . yet. Just thinking about new possibilities.”

No lies there.

“Okay, Syd,” Gemma says. “But this is a group for people in their twenties. I think Jessalee assumed you were a little older because you work in the kitchen.”

“But you know I’m a baby child?” I mutter.

“I know you really shouldn’t date adults until you’re an adult,” she says in a mild, reasonable tone. “When you’re old enough, you bring pie around any time you want.”

I set my pies down on the long table and make several new friends instantly. Javi is eyeing the blackberry piled high with fluffy Italian meringue that I lovingly blowtorched, and I can’t really blame them. I make sure a big piece makes its way over to them as the pies are divvied up.

The restaurant probably has a policy about outside food, but the waiters quickly start joking with Jessalee about which pies they want to try. I’ll leave behind whatever I don’t need for Vin and Alec.

In my head I’m calculating an enormous apology tip.

Gemma heads around to the far end of the table, and Jessalee grabs the peach strawberry basil pie right out of her hands. She looks at it like it’s the answer to a question that’s been haunting her. Then she digs a fork in and takes three bites so fast they blur.

When she talks, it looks like she’s talking to the pie. “I miss you and Javi so much.”

“Why won’t you talk to us, then?” Gemma asks, shooing someone down the table so she can sit next to Jessalee. That person is so busy scarfing apple pie that they don’t seem to mind.

Jessalee takes another huge bite. Chews it over. “I don’t want you to think that it’s okay that you left me out when you took that trip to Marfa.”

Gemma takes a step back. Javi leans forward. Everyone else is eating, eating, but I’m watching.

“Is that what you think?” Gemma asks. “That we left you out? You were too busy for us. You told us you had to write.”

“I did!” Jessalee hangs her head, blue hair in the pie. “I still wish you’d invited me. I could have brought my book along. I could have worked on it at that little motel you stayed at, with the typewriters in every room. You both knew how much I wanted to go there. You and Javi could have gone out and taken photos all day and then we could have stayed up all night together, looking for the Marfa Lights.”

“We already had plans to take you back there for your birthday, Lee.” Wow. I guess Gemma is allowed to shorten her name, too.

She reaches for the pie. Cuts her own sliver, but sets it aside and fills her fork from the uncut pie instead. It takes her a full minute to chew and swallow or maybe she’s just working up her courage. I can feel the swell of magic, the simmering sense in the air that something is about to change.

“You pulled back so hard and so fast that I worry it’ll happen the next time you get upset about something,” Gemma says.

Javi leans across the table. Digs into the pie with their own fork, halfway out of their seat. Around a bite they add, “I was afraid that you were looking for an out. Because . . . you didn’t like us that much?”

“What?” Jessalee holds a hand to her mouth. “It’s the opposite. I felt so much about both of you. All three of us together. And then you left me behind. I thought . . . I thought the magic was gone.”

That explains the spark Jessalee was chasing that day at Barton Springs.

“No, no, no,” Javi says.

“Absolutely not,” Gemma adds.

Jessalee and Gemma and Javi are all digging into the pie now, but whatever they need to say must be spent, because the only thing they’re doing with their mouths between bites now is kissing.

It’s so sweet, and I’m so happy for my coworker and my best regular and this very nice-seeming person I’ve just met that I don’t notice how much of the pie is vanishing until they’re down to the last slice.

I run around the long table and get there right as their forks tangle over the last piece. Jessalee splits it in two and feeds a bite to Gemma and one to Javi. I’ve never seen three people demolish a pie so fast.

Jessalee looks up at me. “Thank you, Syd. This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Please make it for every special, ever.”

I take a breath. I inhale the compliment.

But the pie is gone. I needed a slice of that for Alec and Vin. They’re the ones I did all of this for.

Jessalee and Gemma and Javi deserve their happiness, though.

We all do.

But even with magic in the mix, we have to work for it. And it looks like I’m not done working. “All right, I’m only seventeen so I guess I should cut out, but have fun with the rest of the pies!”

Now I know what I need, the pie that will fix everything. There’s a secret at the center of Vin and Alec’s relationship, and until they let everything out and let each other back in, we’re all in trouble.

I look back at Gemma, happily scarfing a slice of the salted caramel apple pie with the apple cutouts on top. I hope it’s the one I made when I was thinking about how cute Harley looks with a rolling pin.

And I start to run.

Something is wrong at the Proud Muffin.

I feel it the moment I walk in the door and see Marisol’s shoulders. She’s usually relaxed when she’s baking — it’s like her natural state — but right now the muscles around her neck are bunched in angry clusters. I’ve seen Marisol bake through bad tropical storms, bad breakups with people who keep coming to the bakery to bother her, and a birthday when everyone in her family decided to ignore her.

Whatever has gone sour, it’s bigger than all of that put together.

“Hey,” I try as I toss on an apron.

“Did you really accuse Vin of cheating on Alec?” she asks, whirling around on me, whisk in one hand. “Seriously, Syd?”

I go into a defensive mode that involves not making direct eye contact, and instead I pretend that I’m taking inventory of the coarse sugar cupboard, where we keep little metal drawers filled with every color of the rainbow. “In the walk-in . . . you were right there with me . . . we heard —”

“We don’t know what we heard,” Marisol snaps. “And you shouldn’t assume you know anything about anyone else’s heart when you know so very little about your own.”

Whoa.

I’m not going to dignify that with a response.

No. Wait. I whip around, getting undignified. I’m tired of being held to a different standard than everyone else in this bakery just because I’m a teenager. Why do I always have to take the high road? Why is that road paved with more patience and maturity than people expect from actual adults?

“What about you?” I ask. “What’s the longest you’ve been with anyone? Seven dates? Eight?”

Marisol shakes her whisk at me. “Locking someone into a relationship when you’re both in middle school is not an accomplishment,” she says, crisp and tart as a Granny Smith. “And quantity and quality are two different things.” I think she’s done, because she turns her back and keeps on baking, which usually signals the end of a conversation. But after her hands push out a few rolled lengths of bread dough, she adds, “You know those cakes they sell at Costco?”

“The ones with the slimy white frosting and sugar flowers that could rot a tooth out of your head?”

“Yes.”

“The ones that are the size of a football field but eating even a tiny slice feels like a crime against real baking?”

“Yes.”

“Are you comparing my love life to a Costco cake?”

It’s a good thing I don’t have a pie with me right now, because if Marisol turned around it might be headed straight toward her face. I’ve always thought pieing people would be a waste, but I’m quickly reconsidering my stance.

Marisol bangs down a finished pan of miniature bread loaves, the ones we serve at lunch. “W tells me enough to know it’s a good comparison.”

I throw her loaves in the oven and snap it shut. Even when we’re pissed, we’re still a precise team. Otherwise no one gets baked goods. Otherwise the Proud Muffin falls apart, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. “What, are you and W friends now?” I push it, even though I know I shouldn’t. “Or are you just flirting with my ex because you’re bored, and you know she’s going to get a little crush on you?”

Marisol shakes her head, too disgusted at me to do anything but hold up a stop-with-that-mess hand. “I would never flirt with W. Are we friends? That girl is like my little cousin.”

“And what am I?” I ask.

My voice might sound coarse, like I don’t care.

But I know that my face is open and scared and giving the whole thing away.

Marisol finally turns around, snatching up a wet rag that I forgot about. She tosses it into the barrel in the corner without even looking. “You’re some infant who keeps messing up my kitchen.”

At that moment, three people in full hipster regalia and one in a dark, perfectly cut business suit enter the kitchen. A lot of people confuse hipsters and queer folks. Maybe there are some queer hipsters, but for the most part they just steal queer fashion and make it look boring.

Marisol goes stock-still.

“Right, you’ve already met Marisol,” Alec says, trailing behind the invasive newcomers. “And this is Syd.”

I try to catch his eye, and I only succeed for half of a second, but it’s enough to see the truth.

I’ve seen that look on my parents’ faces, when they were barely keeping it together, when there wasn’t enough money to keep the bills at bay, when they were sad all the time and trying so hard not to show me and Tess how bad things were.

Alec is in pain.

“We know that you have a very loyal staff,” one of the hipsters says. He’s got a dark crescent of facial hair and is wearing a leather apron over jeans that probably cost as much as my entire wardrobe.

“We’ll be bringing in some of our own people, of course,” the person in the suit adds, like he’s the walking embodiment of reading the fine print.

“Of course,” Alec echoes emptily.

“And no staff under eighteen,” the one in the suit says, eyeing me. “We need everyone to be able to serve alcohol.”

“And appreciate black pearl quinoa,” the hipster adds.

All three hipsters — I’m starting to think of the other two as backup singers — laugh and add little jokes. They say the word aesthetic a lot. When they start talking about how they obviously have to repaint the tacky rainbow porch, I’m just about done.

“What’s your business?” I ask, crossing my arms, proudly underlining the name of the bakery on my apron.

The lead hipster doesn’t notice how much loathing is loaded in my voice, or he doesn’t care, because he answers with enthusiasm. “We run the Grain Bar up in North Austin, and we’re hoping to expand.”

“The Grain Bar?” I’ve heard of it. They serve overpriced bowls of “ancient grains” and pair them with hard liquor.

I hate it.

I hate everything about this.

The hipsters trail toward the offices. Alec follows at a marked distance. Marisol thinks these people are here because of me. No wonder she’s mad. My survival instincts go into overdrive.

I need another peach strawberry basil pie. Now.

I can’t just start baking whatever the hell I please while I’m working, though. I need to make it look like this is for the bakery, at least until Vin and Alec realize the glory of this pie. I saw the cascade of honesty it inspired for Javi and Gemma and Jessalee.

My bosses need that.

I run for the phone tucked on the other side of the wall that separates the kitchen and the counter. And I dial the only phone number I know by heart.

“Hello!” W’s voice hits me like someone ran an electric current through the phone. It takes me a second to figure out why. She’s happy. I’d forgotten what she sounds like happy. “Gemma? What’s up?”

I can’t figure out how to answer. To ask what I need to ask. None of it makes sense, out of context, and W and I aren’t in each other’s contexts anymore.

I didn’t just lose the person I cared about most. I lost the person whose life fully overlapped with mine.

“Is this Marisol?” she asks, then rolls off a few words in Spanish.

God, they really are friends.

“Syd? Syd, is that you?”

“Call the bakery back in two minutes, please,” I say.

“What? Why?” There’s anger in her voice now. It shocks me right back into our breakup. “This is some weird ploy to get me to talk to you. Sorry, no thanks. Not after you blew me off the other day.”

I hadn’t thought about how our encounter at Barton Springs must have felt to her. But she’s the one who ended us, right? Does she get to feel bad for herself? Does she get to act like I’m the one keeping us apart?

“You don’t have to talk to me,” I say. Honestly, I don’t have the time or emotional capacity to deal with W and whatever we’re both feeling or not feeling. This is about Vin and Alec.

No — it’s more than that.

“Just make the call,” I say, fear trickling into my tone. “This is for everyone at the bakery, okay? This is about all of us.”

I know that I can trust W to understand that us.

Even now, even if she and I are never close again, there are some things she’ll always understand.

“Okay,” she says, and the phone goes dead.

I go back to the kitchen, back to sprinkling rainbows of coarse sugar on muffin tops.

Two minutes later, the phone rings and I rush to answer it, grabbing an order slip.

“Whatever this is, it had better be important. And you’d better explain it to me later. You can’t just act like I’m nothing and then need me out of nowhere.”

It takes everything I have not to hiss back, Neither can you. You never really explained why you broke up with me. And then you showed up at Barton Springs like I was supposed to be thrilled about it and give you scones.

But I just nod my head and write things down on the order slip, pretending that a customer is urgently requesting a strawberry peach basil pie. “Pastry crust or crumb topping? Yes, we can do that right away.”

The phone goes dead again.

“What was that?” Marisol asks as I stride back into the kitchen.

“Pie,” I say. “I got it.”

I go to the walk-in and grab a ball of pie dough. I weigh it in my hand. It’ll cut my baking time down by half, but will it mess with the magic? I made this dough myself, even if I didn’t do it today. I recognize my scribbled date on the plastic wrap.

Besides, Harley rolled the dough last time and it didn’t seem to ruin anything.

I’ll put extra magic into the pie to make up for it, I swear.

 

FOR THE BOTTOM CRUST

1½ cups all-purpose flour

1½ tsp granulated sugar

½ tsp salt

½ cup (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into ¼-inch pieces

3 tbsp cold water

1 tbsp apple cider vinegar

FOR THE FILLING

4 cups sliced peeled peaches (about 4 to 6 peaches, depending on size)

1½ cups sliced fresh strawberries (just buy a pint and put them all in)

2 tbsp lemon juice (zest the lemon first)

½ cup sugar

2 tbsp minced fresh basil

7 tbsp tapioca flour, or 5 tbsp cornstarch

FOR THE CRUMB TOPPING

6 tbsp granulated sugar

1 tsp baking powder

1⅓ cups all-purpose flour

A pinch of salt

Zest from 1 lemon

½ cup (1 stick) butter, melted

Real talk: pies are a lot of work.

But this one is very much worth it.

First, make and chill your dough. This can be done up to a day before you bake. Mix the flour, sugar, and salt in a bowl, then add the butter and cut together with a pastry blender or your fingers. Sprinkle in the cold water and then the apple cider vinegar, tossing to mix. Bring everything together, kneading the dough a few times to make sure the butter is fully distributed. You might need to add a bonus tablespoon of water to get it to come together. I’ll be honest: this is the ONLY recipe for pie dough that I’ve never had fall apart on me. In a world that feels like it’s constantly crumbling, this dough is one reliable thing.

Cover the dough in plastic wrap and shove it in the fridge for at least an hour. (Fifteen minutes in the freezer works in a pinch.) When you’re ready to start actively baking, preheat the oven to 375 degrees.

Roll your dough out on a clean and floured surface, until you have a ½-inch-thick disk slightly larger than your pie pan. Carefully transfer it, settling the dough into the pan and cutting any overhang. Crimp the edges, otherwise they might shrink up.

It’s time to blind bake! This is another one of those baking things that sounds intimidating but is actually pretty simple and deeply satisfying, because it’ll keep your crust from getting soggy. More real talk: nobody likes a soggy pie. Line the dough with baking parchment and pick your weapon: the shell can be filled with pie weights, dried beans, or rice to keep it from puffing up. I use rice, because it covers the bottom so evenly. If you are my grandma, you can skip the parchment and dock — aka prick holes in — the bottom crust with a fork, but if you are anyone other than my grandma, the docked crust will still puff up. (How does she do it?)

Blind bake the shell for 25 to 30 minutes, until it’s nicely golden. In the meantime, make your filling and get the crumb topping ready.

Combine the sliced peaches and strawberries in a bowl, tossing in the lemon juice and sugar and tasting as you go until you reach your preferred tart/sweet balance. Add in the basil and test again. I promise, the juicy sweetness of the fruit and the bite of the basil will change your life, or at least your idea of what a pie should taste like. Thoroughly mix in the thickener — I like tapioca flour if you can get it, but I’ve used cornstarch and the pie was still amazing.

To make the crumb topping, stir the sugar, baking powder, flour, salt, and zest into your melted butter with a fork until crumbs form.

When your shell is out of the oven and slightly cooled, spoon the filling in, then scatter the crumb topping evenly over the fruit.

Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour. You should see fruit starting to seethe around the crumb topping, but the real secret to knowing when a fruit pie is done is in the sound. When you hear fruit bubbling beneath the surface, your pie is really and truly done.

Let the pie cool fully. Realest talk: this is nearly impossible to do. The scent of the simmered strawberries is at its peak, the basil-laced peach is welling up in pools between boulders of golden topping, and all you want to do is attack the pie with abandon, possibly smothering it in vanilla ice cream or some of that perfect homemade whipped cream. But it really is best if you can wait until it’s no longer blazing hot, when the fruit has settled and the filling won’t run.

Now cut a slice and dig into the truth.