It was a total and utter catastrophe, y’all. I was covered in GF flour, as was the counter, the flour, and the dog (he helps by sitting by my feet). My pie crust, instead of rolling easily into my antique Corningware pie dish, had crumbled itself into the plate. Large parts of it were stuck on the rolling pin. For the sixth time in one night.
Today, 3/14, as many of you have probably see on various social media sites, is Pie Day (pi or π = 3.14159265359). I started baking pies about 10 years ago. I made my own pie crusts from the get-go, using store bought filling because I was too chicken to make my own. Yeah, I see the backwards view of that. The filling is the least of my concern now.
Baking pies came as naturally to me as breathing. I just never failed. The heat, the humidity, what mood I was in…nothing hindered my skill. It became my “thing”. I was so proud of it.
Mr. Cozy Cottage and I had been together for about 3 months when we had a small get-together at the house to celebrate his and his brother’s birthdays. I had only met his mother and brother a few times. We hadn’t become the tight-knit family we are now. So I went all out on the meal, including two pies: one apple for Mr. Cozy Cottage and one blueberry for his brother. They were a hit. His mother told him then and there, while enjoying a mouthful of apple pie and vanilla ice cream, that if he “screwed this up” she was disowning him. She was kidding, of course, but it still gave me warm fuzzies to be appreciated and accepted. Needless to say, I whipped every baking skill in shape that I could.
And then we discovered he was gluten intolerant. The meals have been easy. They’ve turned out pretty well, if not been delicious, if I do say so myself. Even my cobbler turned out wonderfully. But today was my first failure.
I woke with an allergy headache caused from all the disgusting pollen everywhere in Georgia, fought with it all day, and finally got it to ease off enough that I could get in the kitchen. Perhaps that’s why a pie failure hurt my feelings so badly. Or perhaps I just never even considered failure an option as I’d never done it before. Either way, after the sixth time that dang crust crumbled, I lost it. I burst into angry tears. I scraped up as much dough as I could, squished it into a ball, and gave it a good punch. This sent more crumblies flying, which just made me mad all over again. So I scraped it up again and threw the whole thing in the garbage.
I’m not sorry for how I reacted. I admit. I’m a sore loser. Especially when it comes to food.
Tomorrow is another day. The birds will sing, the sun will shine, my vehicle will still be a putrid shade of pollen yellow, but it will be a new day. And I will try again. I will go through all the gluten-free flour I own to get this right. Okay, maybe not all of it in a day. I do have to live my life at some point. But I’m gonna try again. And again. And again. Until I get it right.
One day, my wonderful man is going to have his beloved apple pie and be able to eat it too. But, for now, there are pork chops and mashed potatoes waiting on me, and a vodka-cranberry accompanying it before a long and -hopefully – restful sleep.