I love to bake pies. I'm not really sure what it is, but it makes me feel very Midwestern. I didn't grow up making pies (Sarah Lee did most of the pie work in our house) but since moving to Ohio, I've taken up pie baking. At Christmas and Thanksgiving gatherings, I'm in charge of the pies. My father-in-law even gave up his king of pies crown and said that mine are better. Now that was a moment.
My plan for this Thanksgiving was to make the pies last night. Instead, I had some sort of nasty stomach bug and spent most of yesterday afternoon and evening in bed, fighting a fever, and sipping peppermint tea. I woke up this morning with a lot of work ahead of me. My parents are coming in from California today (yay!) which leaves all the cooking in my hands (not really yay). I got to baking first thing, thinking it would be best to get the pies out of the way. I made the filling and rolled out my dough. I took my beautiful pies out of the oven and let them cool on the counter. Now, let me preface this with I'm already short one pie. I had planned to make two pumpkin and one apple but since I didn't cook yesterday I didn't realize that I would not have enough cinnamon for all three. So I went ahead with the two pumpkin only. Anyway, as I said, pies were cooling on the counter. I am sitting at the dining room table, knitting, when Adam walks into the kitchen and yells, "NO!"
"Hazel's eating the pies!"
I ran into the kitchen saying, "what!?" And sure enough, Hazel was eating the pie.
Thankfully, I'm feeling better today and can laugh at this. And thankfully I made two pumpkin pies. I love that girl, but she's never been easy to live with. I'll continue to be thankful to have her and Timber in my life (although Timber would never eat a pie).