It is Thanksgiving Eve, and I have a fantasy that I am a pie maker. That I am a real woman.
Little did I know that, after six batches of pie dough, too little pie filling, and a husband who forgot to charge the cell phone before going to the grocery, I would discover that I am not a real woman at all, but a sniffling, whining failure. I can not complete the simplest task of making a pie for my in-laws to enjoy on Thanksgiving. Forget that I have given birth to six children. I can't make a stinking pie.
Doesn't every real woman know how to get the pie crust off the counter after rolling it out? Doesn't every real woman know how to check to make sure she has all the ingredients one might need to make a blasted pie before starting?
My children watch their mother lose it and start flushing stuff down the garbage disposal while stating that she is a failure over and over again. You know, the kind of stuff they will need therapy for in 10-20 years. Amanda put a large dab of flour on her nose and said she looked "just like me." I don't think so. She was missing the insanity factor. So, I gave up and sent Coral and Ryan to the store with my debit card to buy, gulp, store pies. Not only that but the kind that cost 2/$5.99. Steve reassured me that his family would still love me.
The next morning I rise early to prep my home for Steve's family coming over. I prepare the turkey. The smell is wafting through our home. My little blond boy comes down the stairs rubbing his sleepy, green eyes and adoringly looks at me and says, "You can't make pies." I am not making this up. He did. This was going to be his memory of me. Not the twinkling white lights that I strategically placed to create a warm atmosphere in his home or the smell of candles in the air while he gazes at the log in the fireplace all aglow. Not me snuggling him under a warm blanky while reading him "Blueberries for Sal" or "Make Way for ducklings." Oh no, he is going to grow up remembering his mother can not make pies.
I made a pie. I got out all the ingredients, and I tried again. He watched, and this time I succeeded. Granted it was not Grammie's pie crust, but it could be chewed without too much effort.
So, hats off to me and cokes to the west. I am woman. Hear me roar.