So I made a pie on Monday. And by that I mean two pies, because I didn't know that one can of Libby's pumpkin makes two pies. Sheer luck that I got two pie shells at the grocery store beforehand rather than just one. I'm going to put this out there: I was terrified of making pie. Our oven at this apartment tends to burn/crisp up unwatched things and set off the shrieking fire alarm so I have to hold the big box fan at it until it shuts up. Plus I've never made a pie before, ever, not even watched someone make a pie. Please understand my fears here, as the most ambitious thing I've made in the dessert world before was cookies. It's not that I don't think it'll be fine really, it's just that I create these horrible pie-death-house-fire situations in my head that I get a little worked up about sometimes.
Surprisingly? Pie is not that hard. I mean. I haven't tried making it from pumpkin that I cooked myself yet, and I didn't make my own crust, and... oh. Well those are the hard parts, basically, so I just took the easy way out and ended up with perfectly passable pie. I only had small problems. I ended up with just a little too much of the actual filling and had nothing to do with it (aka didn't know what to do with it) and dumped it sadly down the drain. Then as my first pie was baking, a third of the edge crust fell off and took some filling with it. I narrowly avoided alarm-sounding burning and scraped it off the pan I had smartly placed under the pie tin. (I get to pat myself on the back for that one. Yay common sense baking!) Then I wasn't exactly sure what a pie should look like when it's done, so I poked it half a million times with a knife. It ended up like this:
And then her mother made pumpkin pie on Tuesday.
I have eaten far more pie and ice cream in the past three days than I ever have at a single Thanksgiving.