So. I bought apples. Granny Smiths. With Libby and Ben in Nebraska City. 

Wanted to make again the pie that I made one time to satisfy Mark’s craving. The pie he ate one piece of and then sent home with me. Wouldn’t even keep a piece for the next day.

But I realized I didn’t have my pie dish. Lost in the dish divide.

I asked old roomie about it. I know I had one because I’d make microwave monkey bread in college. That’s why I bought the thing. Clearly. Only one other pie made in my life.

Pie dish regained!

Now … now I’m ready. 

But it requires half and half, for which I must go to the store. Going is sometimes very hard. 

Success! I buy it on game night. Because 1) I’ve gone, and 2) I’ve remembered. Aha. Now it is time!

Except on the day I decide to bake it, I have no cinnamon. le sigh. I will pick it up later, on the way home from somewhere else.

READY. TODAY! I even have time to make it and bake it if I juggle my balls just right.

I mix up the crust. But I have no oil. Oil!? I just assume I have oil. Only olive oil. But I think that would be weird. In pie.

Ok. Well, I’ll get the other parts ready because I’ve already peeled apples and I’d rather they soak in the creamy mix than stand naked.

Vanilla. I am also lacking vanilla.

This is just ridiculous. I physically check for every single other ingredient needed. And then I dash to the store. Still time to bake if I hurry!

Egads. The lines are so long. A cashier takes pity on me and my two items. A firefighter asks if I have an emergency batch of cookies. “Pie, actually.”

Ok. You know, I am just too rushed. Let’s wait. Let’s assemble the pie and bake it tomorrow. Then we’ll eat WARM pie. Yumyum.

I will take my unbaked pie to work tonight, because I will leave work at 2:00 tomorrow just right to get to friends’ for the 2:30 game.

Only. It sloshes. Ok. A tray. A tray and a towel. 

The tray leaks. Apple pie creamy filling all over my passenger seat. And still sloshes. The apples are there. Naked after all. All my filling is in my car.

I get to work carrying mystery tray. “What’s that?” they ask. “A disaster,” I say. 

And I laugh genuinely, because it is genuinely funny. Maybe I’ll bring a [sealed] container of more of the filling and just pour it in. Or maybe we’ll chuck the whole fucking thing.

(Subsequently have made three more pies to use up all apples and half and half. All successful.)