Pride goeth before the clank in the dumpster. That's my motto. I learned it my first Christmas as wife to the man I like to call "Puppyknees." (Okay. That's a lie. I don't call him "Puppyknees." I call him "Angeldimples.")
I dove into marriage and wifey-hood with all the enthusiasm of Donna Reed. I was determined to do the whole home-baked, spic-and-span, charitable-neighbor-thing. And our first Christmas I started by baking my signature apple-pecan-creamcheese pie with the intention of taking it to someone in need. Yeah, it's as delicious as it sounds. And I made it up, so you know, it's Donna Reed squared.
Hub and I thought about who we might bestow this touch-of-home gift upon and came up with a family new in our church congregation. He played football for the local university. They were nice people, but seemed a bit shy and we wanted to welcome them. That decided, I dove into the dough like Michael Phelps, but without the swim trunks. No wait. I mean, he would have worn them. I just wouldn't have. When baking pies. I would when I was swimming. And a top too. But not with pies. He might wear them with pies. Jeans. I wear jeans. Um . . . never mind.
Anyway, I peeled and sliced, and rolled and crimped, with images in my head of taking the finished product to this family. I saw them opening the door and me handing the cloth-covered pastry to them, whilst they wept openly at such kindness. In my vision they kept telling us over and over again that we had renewed their faith in the season. Oh, it was going to be a lovely moment. Weren't we wonderful?
I baked the pie and it came out of the oven golden and smelling of cinnamon-apples. Angeldimples and I carefully covered the gift, got in our car, and drove across town to where this couple lived. We were so excited! It was late enough in the evening, yet early enough in the season that they should be home.
Except they weren't. We knocked and rang and waited patiently, but no couple answered the door. A little disappointing, but we were not to be deterred. We decided upon another recipient of my pie. After all, make one person happy, and the whole world is that much happier. So, off we went.
No one was home at the next place either. Nor were they home at the one after that or the one after that. We even tried some of our best friends, and they were gone too. What kind of friends were they anyway?
Well, I was crestfallen. There was nothing to do but take my lovely confection home and eat it. So we did. Except, the knife wouldn't go in. The thing actually bounced off the pie crust. Bounced. I tried again; applied more pressure. The knife punctured the top of the pastry and with a few whacks to the handle, slid a centimeter or two inside. Wha? Had Angeldimples replaced my flour with cement mix?
We finally got a slice out of the thing, only to find upon tasting it that not only was the top crust as hard as a rock, but the bottom crust was mush and the apples were like wood. Couldn't even taste the cream cheese.
HOLY COW! No idea what had happened. My gift to the world tasted and felt like I had made it with a baseball bat. We decided to chuck the evil dessert in the dumpster outside our apartment and never speak of it again. So I went outside, lifted the lid, and dropped my sad gift inside.
It clanged when it hit the bottom. Like I'd thrown a manhole cover inside. It was the clang of my pride smacking against the dumpster of my soul. Man, I'd been full of myself.
Oy.
Thank you, Christmas Guardian Angels, for saving me from my silly self. And everyone else from intestinal distress.
Lesson learned: Don't congratulate yourself too much. Don't fantasize about pie dough and Michael Phelps. And just make no-fail fudge next year.
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