While walking home from the bus stop yesterday morning with my neighbors D and M, the subject of pie came up.
Of all things, eh?
D mentioned she had to make 3 pies...apple, pumpkin, pecan, of course...
M mentioned SHE needed to make 3 pies...apple, pumpkin, and
something as yet undetermined but potentially some kind of cream pie, you know...
and I mentioned that I had to make a lone pie.
Apple, in case you were wondering.
So, D, who is always thinking when she shouldn't, said, "Too bad we're not doing a pie swap...it'd be easier to make 3 of the same kind of pie and then swap 'em."
Me, I got nervous, but M? Oh, no, she wasn't nervous at all. In fact, her eyes went VERY BIG and she literally shouted, "YES!!!!!!!! YES!!!!!" while jumping up and down under the giant pine tree we're trying to get the town to remove because it's a scary-ass-dying-listing enormous tree that's going to take out at least one house and maybe even a car.
Or a kid.
While D and M got way too excited over pie, I tried to sneak away with a mutter of "My dog needs to poo..." but they stopped me, and the next thing I knew one of them (I think it was D, the bitch)
said, "Lemony! You make the CREAM PIES!"
And I, despite the commentary in my head that was going "no, no, no you freaking crazy psycho lunatic women i am not making 3 pies when i only had to make one and i'm not i'm not i'm not!",
Obviously I was short a few cups of coffee.
So here's the thing. I have never. EVER. Not one time. Made a cream pie. Well, unless throwing some instant pudding in a pre-made crust and topping it with Cool Whip counts as a cream pie. Then I *have* made a cream pie. So, YAY! me, right?
Let me introduce you to my neighbors:
M - Stay-at-home-mom who isn't above wearing her jammies to the bus stop but is showered and dressed immediately afterwards. Every curtain in her house is hand-sewn. By her.
Owns a massive sewing, embroidering, quilting machine that is bigger than my kitchen table, and she actually uses
it. Never orders take out. Not even pizza. Because she "enjoy cooking meals that are both tasty and full of good stuff!"
D - Stay-at-home-mom who IS above wearing her jammies to the bus stop. Showers, dresses, and has make-up on by 7:00 a.m. even on Saturday. Every curtain in her
house is hand-sewn...by M. D will order take-out, but only on the nights she's too busy toting her precious beans to dance/soccer/football /music/ karate/ whatever-they're-doing-tonight. When she does cook, it's six different things because "Little D doesn't like macaroni but Favored Child N does, and the baby loves cheesy stuff but that other kid upstairs doesn't..."
Me - There isn't a single hand-sewn curtain in my house. Why would there be? I don't own a kitchen table-sized machine to sew them. Besides, I like the catalog
that shows up in my mailbox. I do cook more than I order take-out, but there ain't no "Oh, okay, honey, I'll just whip up something else for you" going on here. I cook one
meal, and if Lemony Teen decides she hates the Monterey Chicken and roasted taters then she'll just have to have some Cheerios. Or crackers. Whatever she decides, as long as I'm not the one preparing it, because, you see, I already
cooked. Eat it or starve, baby. Them's the rules.
I like D and M. They are very sweet women and manage to be uber-Mummas without being like Muffy
, which I really appreciate. Shockingly, they seem to like me, too, so it's all good. Well, except for the part where they live in some weird, whacky little world where people actually bake
things. Like, from scratch and everything. Which means they're expecting a little more than instant pudding thrown into a tin-foil plate. Especially M, who crazily volunteered herself for the apple portion of the pie baking festival.
So. Tell me. HOW does one make a cream pie? It involves boiling milk and making pudding and adding shit, doesn't it?
I am so screwed.
Anybody have a good recipe for a cream pie? Chocolate? Banana? NOT coconut? Because I hate coconut, that's why, thankyouverymuch.
Ack.Oh, and ACK.
This? Is my life. Giant pine trees and pie. It's a good life, but hell if I know how I got here.
Maybe I'll move to Miami. At least there I can strap some roller blades to my feet and get myself killed by rolling into the street in front of a speeding Maserati while wearing a bikini that looks horrible on me.
Far more interesting than death by falling tree. Or pie.