I'm so fat.
So fat that I made a pie as a thank you and it came out looking so incredibly delicious that I ate it.
Our neighbors Dave and Laura did us a favor and watched Alli for a few hours Saturday while Jerry was at the Penn State game and I was at work. Allison absolutely adores their son, Nicholas, and I knew they would take good care of her. In fact, they didn't want to give her back.
Knowing they wouldn't take any money, I opted to bake a pie and invite them over after dinner last night for an impromptu dessert party. I set the dining room table with our china and sliver, got out the fancy placemats, even went so far as to get online and learn how to fold a napkin restaurant-style for each place setting.
Just one thing was missing. They weren't home. And hadn't been all afternoon.
In a panic, I made Jerry call Dave's cell.
They were at Nicholas' soccer game. Then Dave would leave directly for his night shift. And who knows when Laura and Nicholas would be home. Plus, it was a school night.
Of course I could've simply walked the pie over to their house and left it on their back porch with a thank you note. Which is absolutely what I should've done.
But I'm fat.
And dammit, I wanted a slice of that pie.
Well, what I really wanted was to take a fork and hide out in a closet with the entire thing and the gallon of vanilla ice cream I had bought to go with it until both of them had been demolished, but Jerry and Toby would've sniffed me out. And Allison surely would've followed.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "It's just a pie." But this wasn't just any pie. This is the only pie I've made in probably two years. And I love pie. Way more than cake. More than chocolate. More than cookies. Not more than ice cream, but they go TOGETHER. Forget hot fudge, walnuts or cherries. Ice cream shops should offer pie as a topping.
And it came out perfectly. PERFECTLY. It was the most gorgeous thing to come out of my oven ever. Any oven. In the history of ovens.
The funny thing is, I didn't even put that much time into recipe searching. I simply got online and Googled "apple pie." And the first recipe that popped up? Well, it sounded good.
Grandma Ople's Apple Pie.
And if there was any name that would give credibility to an apple pie recipe, Grandma Ople is it. I mean, if it had been called Pedophile Jack's Apple Pie? Not so much. But Grandma Ople? Who can't picture her in a kitchen, wearing a faded apron with flour up to her elbows kneading out pie dough?
To add to my desire of eating it, I sliced up and added some of the pears from our tree. An apple pear pie. That came out looking perfect. Goldeny brown perfect. Mostly thanks to the Dough Boy's premade pie crusts, but whatever. It was perfect.
And I wanted it.
So instead of giving up on the dream of just one slice, I suggested we take a walk after dinner. And that maybe, just maybe, our neighbors would be home when we got back and we could eat the pie together, saving a slice for Dave.
No such luck.
After an insanely long walk, they still weren't home. It was getting dark. The bats were coming out. Allison was tired. And I. wanted. the. pie.
"Can't we just each have a slice and give them the rest?" I asked Jerry, hoping he would agree with me. I knew he wanted the pie just as badly as I did.
"No, Kelly," he said. "Not if you want it to be a thank you, you can't."
I curled my bottom lip down.
"If you just want to share the pie, then a slice or two is fine, but not as a thank you," he added.
"You're right. Dammit you're right," I said. "BUT IT LOOKS SO FRIGGIN' DELICIOUS AND I WANT IT."
For the next few minutes, I went back and fourth on the decision, literally pacing the kitchen floor with a knife in my hand. I'd take a few steps toward the pie, place the tip of the blade in the center, prepare to cut it, then say, "Ugh, no! I can't do it! I didn't make it for us. ... BUT I REALLY WANT IT!"
Watching from the other side of the room, holding Allison, Jerry just laughed.
"If I just had audio of this, I would think you were 400 pounds," he said.
"Call your mom," he said. "She'll know the right thing to do."
"KELLY, YOU CAN'T GIVE SOMEONE HALF OF A PIE."
"But I really want it."
It was said in that motherly "I'm disappointed in you so I'm using your middle name for emphasis" sort of way.
She was right.
I wouldn't eat the pie.
Then I hung up and my inner fat kid kicked the crap out of my voice of reason. Just pulverized it. Pretty soon, I had cut two deep incisions to form a V, fished out a spatula and piled the result on a plate.
"You want one too right?" I asked Jerry, who was standing next to the fridge with his mouth open.
"Hells yes I do!"
His inner fat kid was celebrating too.
"Then get out the ice cream."
And you know what? It was worth it. Worth every tormented bite. It was perhaps the most perfect dessert I've ever made in my entire life. And our pears were fantastic in there.
Jerry, scooping the last forkful into his mouth complemented me the only way he knew how.
"This would've been one HELL of a thank you."