Pies and I have a very precarious relationship that began about 9 years ago. One day I had made five beautiful pecan pies for a bake sale. These were the best pies I’d ever made! Did I mention they were beautiful? I was so proud of those pies. They looked like pies that came straight from an Amish bakery.
On my way out to my car with two pies in hand, a most awful and tragic thing happened. Somehow those two beautiful, picture-perfect pies slipped from my hands and flipped face-first into the gravel at my feet. To make a long story short, I took a vow that never again would I be proud of a pie. It doesn’t taste good to eat pecans and Karo with gravel pieces mixed in.
Now let me tell you my most recent pie story.
I had been asked to make five pies for our church fellowship dinner on Sunday. And sitting in my freezer were eight pie crusts that I had made back a couple months ago. They were for times like this when I needed to pull them out in a hurry.
So on Saturday, I thawed my pie crusts, whipped up my cream filling and peanut butter crumbs. Filling the pies up, I put them in the refrigerator.
Sunday morning, about 30 minutes before heading to church, I took the pies out to finish them. Beginning on the coconut cream pies, I spread whipped topping on them before sprinkling coconut on top. Taking them over to the table, I felt that old demon of pride knocking on my heart.
These pies were so beautiful! I loved the way they looked with the cream layer, whipped topping, and toasted coconut. Bending down to get a better look at my masterpiece, my heart took a sickening dive to my toes. Is that raw pie crust I see there?!! Didn’t I bake these pie crusts yesterday? Think, Kendra, think!
“Lowell, Lowell!! AAAHHHHH!!!”
Just a quick side note . . . . . . . . . somewhere in that man’s future sits a giant case of blood pressure medicine for all the times his wife has sent his blood pressure through the roof.
But at the moment, after detecting the crisis that was on hand and that he couldn’t really help matters any, he retreated to a corner just out of reach of rolling pins and wooden spoons.
I, on the other hand, had finally stopped hyperventilating long enough to figure out Plan B. Thaw the last three crusts, scoop out the fillings of two pies and bake those crusts, then dump all those gorgeous, creamy pie fillings back in the baked crusts. Swirl it all around real good so nobody knows, slap some more whipped topping on, and we’re good to go.
I ran out of whipped topping. So now I must humble myself to call some other lady from church to please, pretty please bring some whipped topping so my pies will at least look edible!
So now I believe I have learned my lesson.
I will never be proud of a pie again.
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