The College Boy was home this weekend and lamented that I NEVER made pie anymore. I ignored him at first, and then I got an attack of the guilts and figured I might as well make
Without thinking about it (which is how I do most of my cooking and pretty much anything else in life), I made enough crust for TWO pies. I baked both pie shells (by the way, if you don't keep your pie crust-rolling chops up, you lose them, so they weren't the PRETTIEST crusts I've ever made, but they were certainly still tasty) and spent hours and hours making a French silk pie, half of which was gobbled up in mere minutes.
For reasons only known to the school district, we had classes as usual today, which is President's Day, but the College Boy did not and was still home. My husband didn't have to go to work, either, so they spent the day watching movies and asking me what I was going to do with the unused pie crust that was still on the dining room table.
Fine, I'll make another pie.
This time, I wanted to replicate a pie we love from a favorite restaurant in town, a chocolate cream pie with a layer of cherry pie filling inside. Since this was another FOR REAL pie, that meant no cheating with a box of chocolate pudding, and (this is important) the recipe called for sugar, egg yolks, milk and cornstarch. I keep the cornstarch, which I don't use very often, in a high cabinet above my pantry shelves, shoved way in the back. Thinking I would be putting it right back inside after I mixed the ingredients, I left the cabinet doors open, which is not something I ordinarily do. I cooked the pudding, added the chopped bittersweet chocolate and butter, and now was ready to pour it into the pie shell (the already-baked one sitting on the dining room table that had been SCREAMING to my husband and son and BEGGING to be made into a pie). With great purpose, I strode towards the dining room when CRACK, I ran into the corner of the open cabinet door with my head and dropped like a rock to my knees.
|The scene of the crime.|
The sound was enough to make my husband pause the movie he and the College Boy were watching and come into the kitchen, where I was bent over, holding my head and crying.
"Let me see," he said, pulling my hands away from my head, and when I looked down, there was blood on my hand. GAHHHHH!!!! No, wait, not blood; just chocolate. And a growing goose egg on my head.
Once my husband determined I
|Icing my owie with boo boo bunny.|
Don't I look pitiful with my mascara
all over my face?
|The nursing staff.|
I still have a headache. And a very tender lump on my forehead, right at my hairline.
And pie. I have pie.
|I TOLD you the crust wasn't pretty.|