It's a lot less dicey than last week when I lost my Clothes I Sewed Myself virginity with the first self-made skirt, in that I've spent less time worrying about my ass flapping about freely from an unsewn seam. Unfortunately this has freed up my mind to focus on exactly how much jiggling my ass does and how catastrophic it really would be if such a clothing disaster were to take place.
Meanwhile I also baked the first blackberry pie of the season. I managed to pick enough blackberries at my mom's place this past weekend to fill five FIVE pie crusts. And for those of you who haven't been hanging around since last July, this blackberry picking bonanza is a yearly occurrence more important to me than any major holiday other than my birthday month (August) which I'm working on declaring country-wide.
Blackberry picking with mum is about the best thing I can imagine doing when it's a hundred (or in last year's case - 109) degrees outside and there's still no pool (Dad, come on, it's been almost 30 years in that house and still no pool?). And, bless her heart, my mom always plays along even though I'm sure she's starting to dread my arrival for berry picking. Always with the big straw hat and flip-flops - insisting I don't need to wear legitimate shoes, long-sleeves, pants that cover my legs, etc. And then the inevitable shrieking when I tripfallcrash into the brambles and end up grabbing big stabby branches to keep my face from being torn off.
The woman is a patient saint, I'll tell you what.
Every year she cobbles together the old plastic strawberry pints, ancient Cool Whip containers and plastic tubs so well-loved their original painted on labels have worn right off so that we can pick clean the bushes that grow so invasively all around their property. Of course, I forgot (read: was so covered in blackberry juice and my own fresh blood that I had to be hosed down) to take photos of this blackberry bush invasion, but one year I will. It's enviable or frightening depending on who you are and whether you like blackberry pie a lot.
Which I do. And now we have gone full circle and I can show you the first pie of the season:
I decided his name will be Two Face like the character from Batman who has a face that's normal and sexy on one side and a freaky hot mess on the other. I think you will agree that this name is apt as you can clearly see that the pie perfection I so strive for began to rapidly derail about halfway around the pie there.
At current tally, all the pretty pieces have been eaten by Bubba and moi, and only the fugly delicious pieces are left. Good thing I always remember to slide a rimmed cookie sheet under my pies for just such an explosion (except last time, which refreshed the horror in my memory so I won't forget for at least two more times).
The best part of this blackberry season, if the fantasticness of PIE IN OUR LIVES isn't enough, is that I have begun to perfect the sport known as Pieing.
This is when I pick a lot of blackberries during an outing like I explained before, scoop their rinsed selves into zippy bags in One Pie increments, take these bags home, add the other filling ingredients according the Bible (Joy of Cooking) and freeze. I then make (or buy like a lazy ass) a consistent number of pie crusts x2 (top and bottom crust. You know.) and then freeze.
And then, this is where the sporting happens, I nonchalantly wander to the freezer, pull a bag of filling and a pair of crusts out to thaw and magically throw a pie together and bake it in no time flat so that Bubba comes floating into the house like a cartoon weirdo on one of those smell-good waves.
"Is that pie I smell, perfectly wonderful and beautiful even though you just ran nine miles, wife?"
"Why yes it is, fabulous husband who is already holding a fork and drooling in a distracting way..."
And we all say, "WOO HOO!"
It's pie season, and that's big times around here.