On one of the years that our cherry trees produced abundantly, I gave pie making a stab, literally. Having a mother in law whose pies were county fair blue ribbon standard, I was always intimidated in the pie-making arena. Consequently, any culinary skills in that endeavor were hit or miss to say the best. I have learned that as long as I make piecrusts with a machine, like I do everything else, they usually turn out better. As long as I keep my hands off, there’s a chance at a successful crust.
Before learning this about myself, I had made a beautiful looking pie to serve one evening for entertaining dinner guests. All kinds of preparations went into this dinner for my husband’s aunt and uncle. Uncle Norm had made so many delicious dinners for us at our weekend camping get togethers; I had wanted to repay the kindness.
Most of the day went well, the plan came together. Everything was going to be smooth as silk.
Perhaps it was an omen of things to come when I became aware that one item was left unchecked – the cherry pie. Deciding to sample a slice, I got a knife and attempted to cut out a wedge. I had to stab it, instead.
The crust had turned out about as flaky as corrugated cardboard. The knife wouldn’t even go through the bottom crust without using a back and forth sawing motion and applying much pressure.
Whatever mistake I made this time, it was perceived as a complete disaster.
But since it was dessert, the big pie mistake wasn’t all that much of a concern. Uncle Norm wasn’t such a dessert person, and Aunt Betty always watched her sleek figure.
All else ready, we just had to wait for the guests to arrive. They would be coming from a distance, so I would wait till I saw them come through the door to make any more forward movements.
They were a bit late. And when they did arrive, they surprised us by bringing another couple! Worse yet, Willard, Uncle Norm’s friend was a creepy guy. But, I won’t get into Willard’s weirdness right now.
As it were, I had prepared for four people, and now I had to stretch everything out to accommodate six. The whole evening was a mistake. I thought they’d never leave, before my dander was up and I said some angry, stupid thing to add to the list of mistakes.
Unfortunate, they stayed long enough for me to release the subverted revenge fantasy that had been playing out in my mind. A bright red light bulb had lit up in my head. It was put there by a wicked little demon that comes to visit sometimes. Also uninvited, this little demon always comes up with outrageously clever revenge strategies.
“Aha, I said to myself. That’s it. I’ll show them a thing or two and serve them the cardboard crusted cherry pie.” It was a cruel thing to do, but I was a slave to the wicked little demon inside me by now, and I proceeded to serve the cherry pie mistake.
They got their just desserts, and I got mine. I heard the forks tapping the crust with suspicion. In the corner of my eye, I watched delightedly the struggle to break through the impossible crust. I watched the creative approach of Willard’ wife with her piece of crust getting swizzled around in the melted ice cream to no avail. I laughed inside as no one remarked, but kept struggling with the unpalatable cherry pie mistake.
When they finally went home, as I cleared the dishes from the table, I was still bubbling with secret delight and laughter. I have harbored no ill feelings about the rudeness of bringing uninvited guests. In memory, I always cherish the silent giggle, instead.
My cardboard pie turned out to be a blessing in time instead of a big mistake. A pleasantly funny memory, it was the cherry pie mistake that came in handy.
