A few days ago I decided to make the ultimate berry pie. My mom was in town and I wanted to show her my goods. To make it even more high class, we spent the morning at a local organic peach/apple/basil/apricot/can it get any better than this? picking orchard. Truth be known, I had plans on picking ripe, juicy peaches... getting my fingers pricked while digging around raspberry bushes... wiping down my sons delicious face as all kinds of organic goodness dripped down his chin. It was going to be lovely. Absolutely delightful.
Ends up we missed some picking times by days, weeks, months? The only thing available was basil. And biting flies. Not quite what I imagined. The perk? They did have peaches in their store. And raspberries. And the basil we picked (ready for this? I ended up picking leaves off some random plants first, not really thinking it was basil, but sure that this was the place he had directed me too. Ended up taking a bite out of it because, really? It just didn't seem right. Yep. I had just spent ten minutes picking off big, huge leaves from some random plant in some random persons garden that lives on sight. Tesoro, my hero, found the basil- it was up the bend and 'round the corner and hiding in these beautiful rows upon rows upon rows of herbs. Who would have known?) ended up only costing a buck.
So we get home and I get all kinds of busy peeling, slicing, making pie. Beautiful, beautiful pie. The crust was one of my best ones ever. And all those fruits? Friggen gorgeous. My chest had burst out in about ten different places because, hell ya. I had this one in the bag. All folks around were impressed as I tilted the pie pan this way and that, making sure the sugar on top was balanced just so. Gorgeous.
No sooner had I put the pie in the oven, set just perfectly right, when I realized I had forgotten to mix the sugar, the ginger, the flour, the GOODNESS, into the fruit prior to dumping it in the crust.
Fuck.
Who knows how many curse words exploded out of my mouth (well let me tell you... I think three whos. My mom, my husband, and my son.). I opened that oven, slinging words like weapons. Mom and tesoro? They start begging me to try to save it. To open the crust somehow, someway, in order to dump the stuff in it.
But no. NO. NO!!!
I took that pie pan, placed it over the sink, looked at both of their sweet faces, heard them telling me that everything would be okay if I just.put.the.pan.DOWN. and dumped it. Dumped it right down that drain.
And it felt good. REAL good. Sure, there were reasons why I enjoyed watching my creation go down the pipes. There were reasons why I liked the shocked looks. There were. I admit it. But truth? Once I shoved the full to the brim stuck together top and bottom parts of the crust further down the drain, all those peaches and raspberries made their grand appearance. And that? That hurt. So instead of crying, I laughed. Kind of a "fuck you pie, you aren't going to get the best of ME" laugh.
Blech.
Better luck next time. Albeit with medication.
