A slice of (odd-tasting) humble pie

This is really a very literary post, at its core.  (drum roll please)

  "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."   I think that classic Dickens line even got the order right.  We had just finished reading Beats Me, Claude,  a delightful book that's actually the second in a loosely-knit series of four.  My very favorite part about reading it is every time we get to the best part (I won't spoil it too badly here) Elijah starts giggling a page ahead.  A full page.  Squealing. "Mom! Mom!  Come here!"

Rachel, to her credit, has only heard the punch ten times or so in the last hour, but still manages to enthusiastically respond to LJ,. "What is it?"

 "Mom, You have to listen!  It's almost the part (giggle, giggle, uncontrollable snickering) where (hiccup) Claude asks Shirley ( snort ), 'Shirley, why is the sheriff arresting a moose?' "  At this point we generally have to pause the story while the entire scene is re-enacted, robber shooting apple pie, bullet ricocheting into moose-head, moose-head landing on robber, robber flailing about, etc.  (Ok, so I spoiled it but good)

  It was right there, knee-deep into the story,  that I had my genius idea. GENIUS.  Even we could make an apple pie better than the main character.  Hell, when I was 12 or 13 I used to make them from scratch.  This is what it looked like in my head:



This should have been the first real "red alert!" that something might be awry.  I was, with no practice, going to attempt something I last did TWENTY years ago.  But alas, no such alarms went off in my head.  "Judah! Elijah!  Let's make an apple pie!"  I should also add at this point that I did not work on Saturday, which is really rare for me; instead, I had been domesticating all weekend-- doing dishes, laundry (maybe not laundry -- that might just be a bridge too far), vacuuming, watching 5 (mm-hmm.. 5 ) children, cleaning out my truck, and many, many other boring things.  But the net result is that I was overvaluing my general ability to help out by, say, a factor of twenty.  "We'll even make the crust!"  This got a raised eyebrow from across the table.  Rach can cook anything -- but even she's not nuts enough to take a pie crust,

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure!  I used to do this all the time.  I'll take Elijah as a helper; we'll do the crust in no time.  If you and Judah can keep up, we'll pump out two pies just like in the book."  What was it that Shakespeare said about "vaulting ambition, which oer'reaches itself?"

"In the book the pies explode, nearly decapitate, and nearly poison people," my lovely wife pointed out unhelpfully.  "So it can't be as bad as that!"  was my cheerful  reply.

Wrong again.

Five minutes into the easiest pie-crust recipe I could find, I realized I might be in trouble when Judah (who, to his credit, sat through the whole 45-minute ordeal) looked concernedly down at my creation and said, "Dad, what you making?"  It was a good question.  What I had in my hands vaguely reminded me of quicksand, with the difference being that quicksand holds together far better than whatever I had just birthed.

It was a murky taupe color; it could take any amount of flour, water, or oil without changing its consistency, which was loosely bonded lumps; and no matter how much I punched it, refused to change shape.

  I was just about to call Scientific American and let them know I had discovered a new element for the military to build unbreakable aircraft with when Judah looked up.  "Oh, Mom finished sticky part-- we have wait for you now?"  Yup.  We had to wait for me. And wait for me.  And wait for me.

We had to wait so long that poor Elijah couldn't actually eat the pie that night;  it didn't even come out of the oven until 8:00.

So take that, fictional character.  I can indeed make pies as bad as you.  And maybe I should listen to my wife more.  But I will say this... unlike the book, no one has jumped up after eating it and screamed, "I've been poisoned!!"  .. yet.

The boys and I might stick to cookies.