Snappy title. Bill Mahr is a douche. Although I used to watch his show back when I had the HBO. I also come from a time where people call it "the HBO."
Thanksgiving day. So far so good. My wife is sick as hell, the Peanut pissed on her play mat, and the Pumpkin Man puked on the kitchen floor like a dog. But who gives a shit. I am high on sage fumes and gravy splatter.
Potatoes, sliced and soaking.
Sweet potatoes. Not done.
Rolls. Not done.
Turkey. Coming to room temperature to go in the oven.
Apple pie. I don't want to talk about that shit.
The pie is very intimidating. I am going totally homemade with no help from the wife this year. Last year's, which we made together, was decent but too sweet. The pressure is on because she comes from a family of pie nazis.
Her Grandmother, who is now gone, used to make all the pies. She would make a couple each of apple, wild blueberry, pumpkin, and lemon meringue. As she got older, she got arthritis and the blueberry pie became too much for her, so she switched that one for chocolate cream. They berated her for it. She had "gone soft" and chocolate cream "isn't a real pie," they would scoff and sneer.
"Fuck you and your arthritis, grammy, and make with the BLUEBERRY PIES!!
Watch your back, old lady."
I hyperbolize, but still . . .
Gotta go, put in the turkey.
Gobble gobble, mofoze
UPDATE: I just put the pie crust in the fridge to rest. It's iffy folks, it's really iffy. (in my head) I think it came out too crumbly, but maybe it didn't, but it could be, so I'll use a little more water . . . I think that's too much water. But is it? I don't know. I don't know. It won't come together in a ball. Ooo, it's coming together. Shit, no it isn't. Fuck it, that's close enough I hope. Into the fridge with you. Now is a good time to open that fruity beer you have to drink because it's the only thing in the house. Blech, peaches.
UPDATE 2: The pie. I blew it. It's too tart. Too. Tart. This may be the last you'll here from me. The pie nazis are coming. First, my pie and I will herded into ghettos. Ghettos filled with other people who flew their pies too close to the sun. Which is the number one reason for tart pie. Sun exposure.
Phew. I had to mix those metaphors just to get out of there before it got gruesome.
So the fucking pie came out too fucking tart. I thought we had it. My wife managed to get her poor, disease ridden body to function long enough to help me roll the crust and get it in the pie plate. But no. and now I have 3/4 of a sour pie to eat.
Otherwise, it was an awesome thanksgiving. The peanut barely ate anything, so that was exactly the same as any other day. the Pumpkin man loved thanksgiving dinner. My wife and the peanut made turkey hats which were awesome! Pics of those tomorrow. We watched Home Alone, a truly disturbing film. Especially at the end because all they do is ruffle his hair and say whoopsy and then everyone is happy. That kid should've been dead and will certainly be in therapy forever. It disturbed the Peanut. She just kept saying, "He gonna find his mommy and daddy? He gonna find them. He gonna find his mommy and daddy. He is?" Because that is the scariest thing she can imagine right now. Thanks John Hughes and Chris Columbus. One of whom is dead. Sorry.
Ok. Talk to you folks tomorrow. This peach beer tastes like fermented peaches. Ugh,
Happy Thanksgiving, bloggy friends.