|A Chocolate Cry Pie|
Officially, today is National Pie Day which means if I were truly a faithful blogger I would get up out of my chair and bake a pie. Actually, I heard the news last night and could have begun a pie around 10 p.m. My pie post could have scurried across the internet in the wee hours of the morning, beating
the rest of the world. But I decided to go to sleep and wake up and see how I felt about baking this morning.
|How to start a Chocolate Cry Pie|
I could bake a pie and it would be so good it would make you cry. A Cry Pie. A Chocolate Cry Pie. Crying for another piece. My talent is due to my mother. At one time, my parents "talked" about opening a pie and soup shop in Dallas. As a youngster, I thought that sounded exciting, not knowing it was just dreaming. But they did mention it several times, always after a good pie or a soup my mother had prepared. My mother would make a lemon meringue pie or chocolate pie for our family of four. The next day it would disappear and she would complain about us eating it up so fast. Homemade pies are labor intensive. Of course, my Daddy could eat half of it in the first seating. But I learned how to make a cream pie from the expert.
Homemade crust is the only acceptable base for the perfect pie, nothing store bought, although we have all succumbed to that route on occasion. I once hosted a Graduation Luncheon for a friend's daughter. Three quiches had the pleasure of the Pet Ritz Frozen Crust, which is now hard to find. But on some occasions corners must be cut.
However, I didn't cut corners on the first meal I cooked for Burt when we started dating. I made Quiche Lorraine with Strawberry Meringue Boats. Every bite was homemade. Truly, the way to a man's heart is his stomach.
But since I'm not going the pie route today, it occurred to me to try my own day rhyming with pie. Somedays are just randomonium.
Sigh Day. A "kid" celebrity arrested for speeding and under the influence. Surprised? Sigh.
Sky Day. Overcast and dreary. Winter. January. Bitter cold coming, again.
Dry Day. Dry, dry, dry. Everywhere dry. Static sparks off the dog. Burn bans in January. California to here. Stores running out of hand lotion. A pot of water bubbling on the stove.
Lie Day. Whatever is going on in New Jersey, somebody is.
Try Day. Olympic athletes in their final preparation for a lifelong dream of competition.
Sly Guy Day. Yesterday it was five socks in my walking path through the den. Three appeared this morning in another spot. Yes, there are a few laundry piles sorted but these items were not tossed on
top. And yesterday morning, an 8" tiny stick discovered sticking out from under a chest of drawers. Trust me. He is not starved for attention.
Why Day. A new activity for babies and preschoolers. (Clearly, this is January and too much morning television.) "Zambini." A class of dancing with their mothers/fathers to jazzy music. Playing with scarves, small drums and instruments. This woman can start ordering her 14K gold garage door now. Silly me. When I had a baby, I knew how to dance with her in my arms and she was very good at pulling diapers from the drawer and playing with them. And whatever happened to pots and pans and a wooden spoon. This could also be Sigh Day.
My Day. And yesterday was Buy Day. Whose says I can't sashay around the house on a too cold, dry, grey day in my new half priced Red Paisley designer p.j.s I wanted in October. And drink pots of coffee. Which could be High Day. Caffeine doesn't rhyme with Pie but it could accompany a warm slice of Chocolate Cream Pie, if there were such in the house. Maybe Quiche Lorraine has a future for dinner.