My job here might be done.
Not the pie baking, but kid making. Actually, the kid making is long done, so I guess I mean kid growing, because the youngest gave me the best Thanksgiving ultimatum ever, so I may now claim, my job here is done.
Here’s how the pie making went down:
Every Thanksgiving Eve, Boy is the pie-maker, taking over from his grandma when she stopped making the over the river and threw the I84 traffic. Boy is in charge, and orders his sisters around the kitchen with authority they almost, but not quite, respect. With music blasting, lots of fighting, laughing, and sometimes power tools, they get to work creating the pies for Thanksgiving dinner.
He can’t wait for them to get home from college and adulting, so they can make pies for Thanksgiving, and for a short time, he is reminded what it’s like to not be an only child.
He’s an extraordinary pie baker, has been for years. He’s mastered my mother-in-law’s perfect pie crust, and is in the running for eventually getting to her pie master level. Maybe. Someday.
The results are exceptional: closed crust apple, apple crumb, two pumpkin, and a coconut cream. Year after year.
This year was bound to be different, as doctor appointments have taken up much of the month, culminating with my number four’s minor surgery yesterday. He’ll be fine, no worries there.
Surgery threatens to sideline pie making tradition
But I did ask him if he wanted me to order pies, because he’d be recovering from surgery, and would not be up to it.
He was incredulous, adamant, and a little pissed off at the suggestion.
“No way! Mom!! Are you kidding me? I make the pies on Wednesday night with my sisters!”
So as you can see, my job here is done.
NaBloPoMo national blog posting month. Thank’s for your patience.