The one where she wrote about the pie

I got up Thanksgiving morning and baked three pies. Now, if you're one of those superwomen (or men) who managed to do it all, then I salute you. But me, I did pies, and three is my all-time record.

Yes, they were all from scratch. And yes, they were all with Splenda.

Pie #1: Traditional apple, with cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #2: Blueberry with some red raspberries and lemon, half Splenda, half sugar

Pie #3: Red raspberry with a few bits of apple and cinnamon, all Splenda

Pie #3 was definitely my favorite. It was more free-form--more than a crostada, but less than a properly primped and crimped pie. We cut into it just after breakfast. Sweet, tart, like warm candy.

The other two pies were loaded into the Beetle and driven to Connecticut for Thanksgiving dinner at J's cousin's house. I fretted the whole way there that I'd be tempted to eat the obligatory pumpkin pie instead, but to my shock, there was no pumpkin. I was the only one who brought pie.

Not that anyone really ate it. Italians are set in their ways about dessert, and evidently, if it doesn't involve cannoli cream or mascarpone, it is not to be trusted. In fact, at the end of the evening, they told me to take my lonely little pies home.

And so I did. And we are just fine with that.

Giving thanks

Random moments on the art of appreciation:

To the stupid and bitter waitress in the diner who is far more fond of text messaging and grinning at her little doodad than bringing out lunch plates to people who really DO need to go back to work: quit. I'd like that. A lot.

To the customer in the same diner who shook her head, ranted loudly about Weight Watchers while ordering her turkey burger and steamed broccoli, black coffee, skim, I said SKIM, no one needs otherwise, SKIM: I had no use for your clucking and headshaking when my drippy beef cheeseburger arrived. It was divine, thank you. I did, however, appreciate God's wisdom in assigning you the text-messaging waitress who ignored your pleas for napkins when you spilled the SKIM all over your still-fat self. Didn't it go something like "Judge not, lest ye be..."

To little E, and more importantly, your parents, who have raised you and your darling brother to write prompt and personal thank you notes on your own, thank YOU. You make your aunt very proud.

To my self, for vowing to never blog about work, a big fat snort.

To Chef: the mouth, the soul, the passion. And now the laughter? Loved it. Loved every moment, every bite. Crackled and sizzled.