All right. Who knows what that is? Did your mama do this with her leftover pie crust? You take all the scraps and roll them out together and put butter, cinnamon, and sugar on it and bake it, and as dear Rebecca and I determined today, that is the best part of a pie. Glen loves it so much and that bit of pastry goodness is waiting for him to eat it. He's just gotten back from sighting his rifle.
Debby will know what I mean by that.
So yes, I got the pies baked today. At least the two I'm doing. The thawed pastry rolled out beautifully and I made these two lovelies, guaranteed to trigger a sugar rush that'll last for hours at which time you'll crash like the dreams of a million kids who are certain they'll grow up to be rock stars. Or pro football players. Or the next Steven King.
I'm at the point in my life where even looking at those pies makes me feel a little gastrically unsettled. I doubt I've had an entire piece of pecan pie in a decade but they are a cherished and expected part of the Thanksgiving dinner. Either that, or everyone is lying to me.
"Olives or green beans?" I ask my husband before he begins the process of making them. I prefer pickled green beans in my martinis and he generally does too but sometimes he likes a couple of good olives. He shakes the martinis up and pours them out and we toast and always say, "Happy Birthday!" which is what our friend Red-Headed Rick always said at Hippie Hour back in the eighties when all the old hippies got together at a beer garden on Friday nights, and we also say, "I love you," and we kiss and sip and it's a pretty fine thing.