Ah, 4th of July is almost upon us, and last night someone was setting off fireworks in the parking lot. Now, I like fireworks as much as the next girl, and picnics probably more than the next girl. I miss having the two together, even while I am aware that trying to repeat that experience would probably cause me to have a PTSD flashback and wind up gibbering in a corner, due to an experience I had a few years back. Allow me to post, in honor of this holiday, the sordid tale of the Cursed Blueberry Pie.
11:30 - wake up, having slept for some nine and a half hours. Feel
icky and fuzzy brained.
3:10 - begin work on my part of the picnic to be taken to the Oregon
Ridge fireworks display to share with JR, Eka, Cory, Fyn and Pat. Said
part is One (1) blueberry pie, a quart of chicken and andouille
sausage gumbo, and one batch 'effing good biscuits.
3:20 - realize that I am an idiot, it is actually 4:10, and I am going
to be very, very late.
4:25 - discover I only have enough flour for one pie crust. Root
through freezer to find premade crust for bottom of pie.
4:30 - Blueberry jailbreak. Anarchy ensues as I attempt to scoop up
fallen pint of blueberries and fend off cat, who thinks the little
exploding blue balls are the most fun toys ever. Step on a handful of
berries while chasing after cat, fall down, skid across floor and grid
blueberry juice into carpet. Despair of ever seeing my security
deposit again. Change clothes.
4:45 - mix up bowls and accidentally double the amount of salt in pie
filling and leave salt out of crust.
4:47 - Knock vinegar off top shelf of pantry, spilling vinegar all
over self and new shirt. Curse. Attempt to replace vinegar, but
instead knock down bottle of Karo syrup. Try to catch bottle, but
succeed only in flipping the top and covering self in Karo syrup as
well. Take deep breaths to calm down. Note pungent vinegar aroma.
Change clothes.
4:55 - Assemble pie, then discover that frozen crust had a layer of
wax paper on top of it. Swear colorfully. Remove homemade pie crust,
watch it disintegrate in hands.. Remove pie filling, get blueberry juice on shirt. Remove wax paper. Reassemble pie, reroll out pie crust.
5:01(officially late) - discover biscuits need to cook at a different temperature, although I could have sworn they both baked at 350. Stomp around and glare at cat, bemoaning how late I am going to be and still smelling like vinegar.
5:40 - FINALLY everything is cooked, begin to pack bag. Overbalance blueberry pie while putting into bag. Stare in horror as pie crust ruptures and blueberry filling spills out of pie plate, down side of bag, and splotches onto nearby kitchen chair at about chest height and begins to drip down. Note that chair now looks as though someone sitting in it got shot. Feel oddly jealous of now-restful imaginary dead kitchen chair occupant. Change shirt.
[5:45 (TMI) Discover that, of course, I've also gotten my period in the midst of all this. Change clothes. Pack extra shirt to bring to park, convinced that it will be needed, one way or another]
6:20 - Get to parking lot where shuttles take attendees to the park for fireworks. Note that current shuttle is almost full, and happily gage that by walking at full tilt, should be able to arrive just in time to snag last spot on shuttle and immediately be whisked off to park to regroup with friends. Start walking, only to be stopped by A NUN in a full-on penguin habit asking for help getting to the shuttle. A fucking nun. Note that I am now officially a character in a joke being told in a bar somewhere. Shift hot pie to right hand and take nun's arm while watching my would-be shuttle putter away into the distance. Get burned by hot pie. Walk ninety-year-old nun to shuttle, wait ten minutes in hot schoolbus (You remember that hot schoolbus smell, don't you?) for shuttle to fill. Drive to Oregon Ridge.
6:46 - Arrive, find group. (1hr, 45 min late) Relate the above story
of crappy day with much grimacing and gesticulation. As story draws to
a close, accept the very last remaining cup of Coke as a peace
offering from Pat. Finish bit about nun. Put Coke down on top of cooler. Cooler promptly overbalances and falls, spilling the last of the Coke as well as several cubic feet of ice across picnic blanket, down hill, and onto nice family sitting nearby. (Realize I have said the F-word in front of nice family's small children.) Wish I could pay a visit to Australia via the shortest route possible, molten core of the Earth be damned.
Should you, for some insane reason, wish to replicate this (I am told that the pie itself was quite good, which makes sense, after all, cursed objects have to be someone attractive in order to enact their evil directives upon the unsuspecting.) The recipe is below. I strongly encourage you to not to get fancy with it; please use only a perfectly round pie plate. I fear using anything approaching pentagonal will produce a many-tentacled Pie of the Old Ones instead.
Cursed Blueberry Pie
Pie pastry for 2 crust pie
1 quart plus 1 pint blueberries
1 1/4 cups granulated sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons lemon juice
3 tablespoons dry tapioca
1 tablespoon butter
Preheat oven to 450 F. Wash and drain berries, then mix with sugar, salt, lemon juice, and tapioca. Pour into pastry lined pie plate and dot with butter. Put remaining pastry on top of pie and use a fork to prick a pattern of whatever arcane symbols of protection you feel are necessary. Bake in preheated oven (450) for 10 minutes, then reduce heat to 350 F and bake for an additional 25 minutes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment