I pride myself on my cooking skills. I am a really good cook, as my girthiness will attest. I was raised by a mother who is an excellent cook, who, in turn, was raised by her incredible cook of a mother. Both my mother and my grandmother have (or, in Grandma Greene's case, had) skills in baking that I have yet to attain. I mean, I can bake a mean batch of snickerdoodles, and my cakes are certainly edible. But I have never been able to make a pie crust that was worth the effort it took to make it.
Until today.
Today, I slew my albatross. I conquered my deamon. I succeeded in making a pie crust that holds in its embrace a blueberry pie that will be lovely when it is finally devoured by my now-drooling family.
Here is photographic evidence:
Lookit that! Isn't it lovely? Is it not tempting you? Don't you wish you could be at my house right now, waiting in anticipation for some of that delicious pie?
Of course you are, you dear thing you.
But why, you ask, quizzical expression on your face, is this worthy of The Stupid? Well, I just looked in my fridge, and lookit what I found on the top shelf, nestled next to the ranch dressing and food-service sized jar of minced garlic:
That's right. Pre-made pie crusts that I had already paid for. We could have been eating blueberry pie ages ago had I but noticed that I already had pie crusts in the Fridgidaire*, just waiting to be eaten.
Even I, dear reader, am not immune to The Stupid.
Have a great weekend!
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*My other grandmother called whatever box-like appliance that kept her food cold a "Fridgidaire," regardless of the brand she had at the time.
