I'm a baker at heart. I can and not often enough do spend an afternoon putting things together in the kitchen. It's especially something I enjoy when the girls are spending some QT with the boy and I can just go.
Perhaps because I'm there all of the time, I can multi-task purty well in that domain. As of late, that's about all I can focus at with any ability, it seems like. My head's been all in a-whirl as of late with new ventures starting and new things to figure out. It's fundamentally soul satisfying to be able to put together something enjoyable for your kid or spouse, whatever that offering may be; for me, I fall into the cliche of food for my fam as a labor of love. There's nothing that original about it. I know my people's biggest weaknesses and though they aren't my own, I'm more than willing to work those into the rotation. The boy never met a cookie that he didn't like and big sprout is all about the cupcake.
But the boy also has a soft spot for pie. The one dessert that I could not care less about. There has never been a time in my life where I have been tempted to order pie off of a menu or have forsaken pretty much anything else sweet in favor of a piece of pie. It's not even close to my dessert of choice (of which there are many). And, in all of the 9 or so years since I have had some semblance of my own kitchen, I have never just felt motivated to make a pie.
*has a mercurial base in its crust--either decent or really bad, and much too often, it's really bad
*doesn't have a toothsome quality of pretty much every other dessert
*can require a lot of fruit or pecans, neither of which are generally what I consider to be cheap
*isn't worth wasting all of that fruit or pecans when I can luxuriate in both of those countless ways,
for much longer
I made it once, a few years ago, giving in to the psuedo-begging of the boy. There's something unsavory about him raving about his mom's pie (see * #1), which I've come to understand is more of a childhood warm-fuzzy rather than a true devotion to pie, but it still rubs me uncomfortably. I CAN MAKE PIE, TOO, DANGIT.
So I did, again. I don't know why, probably because I love the boy, but I promised a blueberry pie if/when I went blueberry picking out of thanks for babysitting the girls in my absence. (I know how that sounds; it's not like I have to pay him for taking care of his own children, but I appreciate small tokens of sacrifice in exchange for my work around here and I try to reciprocate. Don't send the feminists of yore after me; it's all about choice.) What do you know...I stumbled upon opening day in the blueberry picking season and came back some 14# richer in those sweet, sweet little nuggets. And I even took one of the two tiny tots with me, so his babysitting duties were fairly insubstantial.
But I did it. True to my word, I made a pie. And it was a decent looking pie. I even made two pies.
And...I forgot to add sugar. Luckily, they were blueberry pies, so they're not pucker-tart as some other berries. And frankly, I didn't miss the sugar though the boy admitted to being a touch disappointed. It was still a tasty little pastry.
And then I made another pie today: raspberry. I'm not hooked, but perhaps my mindset has changed? A little. Someone show me a pan of brownies before I start spewing forth more gibberish! Make a pie and the boy will come...to eat it.