Pie, Glorious Pie!

"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it."

Bible scholars and I all agree:  This verse is about pie.

Well, maybe faith, too.  But mostly PIE.


Pie prep is underway in the House of Crisler.  I have large amounts of butter and parchment paper, because pie crust demands both, particularly if you want to complete the process with no nicks in the surface of your sanity.  After all, it's almost the holidays!  Time to make everything smooth, smooth, smooth for those Christmas cards you're sending out to 250 of your closest friends you don't even talk to anymore!

*clears throat*

Pie.  We were speaking of pie.

Here's what I'm looking at this year so far:

The New

Caramel-Pecan Pumpkin Pie
First and most importantly:  How do you pronounce the word "caramel"?  I say "CAR-mull," even though when I'm looking at it my eyes tell my brain that it should be "CARE-uh-mell."  This dichotomy causes great suffering to the word- and grammar-lover in me, but even so, I will fight to the death in insisting that it's "CAR-mull."  I just will.
I'm a very lukewarm pumpkin ingester; I mean, if you stick a piece of pumpkin pie in front of me you won't exactly have to force-feed it to my face, especially if it's loaded down with appropriate amounts of whipped cream, but if I have to choose between pumpkin pie and almost any other kind I will always choose almost any other kind.  Still, this is Thanksgiving we're talking about, and pumpkin pie feels kind of necessary, doesn't it?
So when I came across this recipe- complete with tempting photo- for Caramel-Pecan Pumpkin Pie in my trusty, beloved Better Homes and Gardens cookbook and it had the little "Best Loved" heart next to it, I knew it had to go on the menu.  The topping alone on the pie in the picture looks like something I'll have to keep myself from "sampling" until there's none left for the actual pie, and this pie counts as the traditional Thanksgiving dish, at least in my rosy little world.

The Trusted Favorite

French Silk Pie

This is a major favorite around our house.  It is rich, it is dense (insert inappropriate trophy wife/husband joke here), and if there's any way you can make it in the presence of those you will be feeding, DO THAT.  Something about the the step that instructs, "Place the saucepan [of boiling mixture] in a bowl of ice water, stirring occasionally, until the mixture stiffens and becomes hard to stir," seems to impress people, even if in practice it's just not that hard.  If you can boil chocolate and you can dump ice in a bowl, you can make this pie.  Just channel all those inspirational posters featuring mountains and sunsets and "BELIEVE IN YOURSELF," although what the harsh nature of the wilderness has to do with self-esteem, I do not know.  What I do know is that your guests/Eaters of Pie will be grateful if you serve this up.  

One thing I will say about this pie:  It does not need the whipped cream that BHG suggests you top it with, and I do not advise that lightly, because when it comes to my Sacred Whipped Cream Beliefs, I am normally quite firmly in the "More is More" camp.  I've dished this French Silk Pie up to a number of people over the years now, and the unanimous opinion is this:  It does not need whipped cream.  This is a pie best left unadorned and unspoiled, which is the opposite of how I feel about the interior of our house during the holidays, meaning Christmas is about to EXPLODE all over this house and I couldn't be happier about it.

The Undecided

Lemon Meringue Pie

While I love Lemon Meringue Pie, the honest reason I want to make this is that I've struggled to achieve that pretty meringue that isn't either weeping or beading, and this makes me cantankerous and obstinate, because meringue is not the boss of me, I am the boss of meringue.  This may not be the right attitude to model for our children, however, especially Adelaide, who is eager to get in the kitchen and get to pie-making.

Berry Fruit Pie

This one is attractive because last year Adelaide mastered the Art of the Pecan Pie, so I'm trying to find a pie recipe that will 1) Be simple enough for her to execute for the most part on her own, 2) Won't be so simple she'll be offended and just sure that I'm infantilizing her, but 3) Still tasty.  This recipe has only four ingredients, aside from the crust, and the directions seem well within her abilities.  

Sour Cream Raisin Pie

I am both attracted and repelled by the name of this pie.  I think the attraction stems from the delightfully old-fashioned feeling I get from it, the revulsion from the suspicion that this pie could be legitimately disgusting.  Or delicious!  

For Consumption Before Thanksgiving Because Sharing is Hard

Apple Pie 

I'm more or less being forced to make this pie because I still have a big pile of apples from a friend sitting on my kitchen counter, and I don't want to be wasteful, do I?  

I've shown you this picture at least half a dozen times, already, but I don't care:  It has Adelaide and it has pie- a pie that Adelaide made, in fact- and she is cute as a button.  Don't tell her I said that.

Obviously we won't be eating six pies throughout the remainder of November; these are just the front-runners, from which I'll choose... probably three.  Trying to hold myself to three.  Well, three plus the apple pie.  That one doesn't count.  Because... apples are healthy?

So You Married a Football Fan

When I was a kid, our Sunday schedule was pretty set:  Get up.  Go to church.  Go to Sunday school.  Come home.  Wait foreeeevvvveeer for lunch.  (It was maybe thirty minutes.)  Eat lunch.  Read the funnies.  Do whatever for the rest of the day.

I had no knowledge of football.  I did not know it had a season of its own, I did not know it was a thing that happened on Sundays, I did not know that there were people who placed any kind of importance on sports in their lives.  My family simply wasn't interested.  I was vaguely aware of the existence of sports only because there were a couple kids in my elementary school who wore Starter jackets with strange symbols on them.  There were a few front yards around town with arrowheads and the word "Chiefs" emblazoned on various things, but I thought that just meant Native Americans lived in those houses. (Well, "Indians" in my childhood brain.)  This isn't that strange, okay; it was southern Kansas, there were a few Native Americans in my school system, plus the Ponca nation just across the state border.

But as it turns out, there are people in this world who live and die (figuratively... for the most part) by their football team.  I know this because I married one of them.

First of all, my husband's come a long way in eleven years, mostly because he realized that Scary Monster Football Derek doesn't do much toward making warm, fatherly memories in the hearts of his children.  He still hollers and glowers and whoops during the games, but he intersperses it with games of catch with the kids and weird, forced smiles thrown in my direction to show that he is still aware of and thankful for my existence.  

But let's say you're still a newbie.  Sports, you say?  Oh, yes, I have heard of the sports.  They make for wonderfully emotional movies.  Isn't it remarkable how the good-hearted underdogs always win?

If this is you- me, a little more than a decade ago- there are some things that you need to know.

#1.  Your loved one is no longer your loved one.

If this sounds like crazy Jedi logic, that's because it is- crazy, that is, but also true.  That perfectly sane, reasonable human being you thought you knew?  They are gone, gone, gone, replaced by wild-eyed, irrational Sports Loved One, at least for the next few hours.  I recommend reading a little classic Robert Louis Stevenson to help you understand this phenomenon, because that is surely Mr. Hyde sitting in your chair, wearing a treasured NFL jersey that may or may not have been washed in quite some time, depending on the level of superstition in your Sports Loved One.  

#2.  You scratch my back, I scratch yours.  You watch sports, I get an extra hour of the Great British Baking Show.

Once you've accepted the reality of the presence of Sports Loved One, it's time to figure out just how you're going to get through this.  You could throw yourself a little fit, make Sports Loved One good and miserable with lots of sighing and eyerolling at key moments in the sports thing, but do you really want that kind of behavior boomeranging back at you when you're in the bookstore with a stack of new-found treasures and what you hope is a winning smile directed toward your loved one?  A little tolerance goes a long way and can be redeemed in a variety of ways, say, in hours-long wanderings together in an antique emporium. 

#3.  Engaging Your Sports Loved One

Okay, so you're ready to practice some tolerance.  But what does tolerance look like?  In the early years of our marriage, it was helpful to me to pretend Derek was a wild animal any time the Vikings were playing.  If you've ever read anything about approaching dangerous animals, you'll find that experts recommend what is known as an "open approach."  You'll find that many of the same principles apply to Sports Loved Ones:  First, you approach the animal/SLO openly, perhaps deliberately making a subtle noise to let them know you are there.  Try delicately crackling a chip bag, preferably in their diagonal line of sight.  Be very cautious about making eye contact.  If at all possible, AVOID CONTACT, but if you must, follow the previous guidelines, and above all, REMAIN CALM.  I do everything I can to stay away from my Sports Loved One, but Doritos are Doritos, man, and sometimes needs must.  

#5.  Immersion.

If you've ever invested time in learning a foreign language, you know that the best and fastest way to acquire this second language is through immersion.  Now, I don't want to alarm you, but merely by virtue of being in a relationship with your Sports Loved One, your own immersion has begun.  Don't fight it, dear.  Parts of your brain may find it slightly appalling that you now use such sports idioms as "throwing a Hail Mary" and "huddling up."  This is natural and expected, and will help make up for the errant All this fuss for a piece of overboiled leather, and It's just a game! that still occasionally slips through your lips.

#4.  Enforced Calm.    

If all else fails, start having babies.  Babies tend to cry when you let out heartfelt screams, even if it is because Adrian Peterson scored a touchdown for your beloved Vikings.  The parenting books don't say so, but infants provide wonderful aversion therapy for the excitable sports fan in your house.  If kids aren't really your thing, perhaps a high-strung dog would meet your family's needs.  Anything that will scream back and with greater intensity at your Sports Loved One will suffice, really; babies are just what we ended up with.

You can do this, sports novice.  If we all stick together, maybe come up with an official colored awareness ribbon for those of us who live with and support our Sports Loved ones, we, too, can have an entire sports event decked out in our chosen color.  I vote puce.  

Eyeballs, Games, and Friends of an Avian Persuasion

Well!  What a week.  It's November, which means my thoughts have turned pie-ward, one of my very favorite -wards.  Adelaide and I have already begun our pie-plotting, strategizing which of us will make which pies, and trying to figure out how many pies is too many pies.  (The limit does not exist.)

Speaking of Adelaide, she had her first appointment with the pediatric ophthalmologist.  Everyone in the office was very kind, which we appreciated, even if getting her eyes dilated is not Daughter's favorite thing.

The woman who put the drops in warned us that it often takes 8-10 hours for pupils to return to normal after dilation, but because Adelaide has lighter-colored eyes, it would most likely take longer.  Adelaide and I both wondered why the heck this was, and naturally, Dr. Google had an answer:  The darker your eye color, the more melanin is present in your eye (which I knew), and that melanin acts a kind of filter (which I did not know!), so people with less melanin in their eyes- those with lighter-colored irises- are usually affected more quickly and for longer periods of time than those with more melanin.  Fascinating!  

Other than learning about melanin and its effects on dilation, the doc gave us a course of action for Adelaide's eyes.  We have cheapo glasses on the way (cheapo because we don't know how long she'll be in these before possibly changing to a different kind-- zenni.com, friends who want cheap glasses), and an MRI scheduled for next week to slap down the troubling red flags raised by her combination of symptoms.  I was still a little freaked out after the appointment, but God put my own personal Florence Nightingale (except she goes by Jessie) in my path who told me exactly what to do and where to make the appointment and where to get the cheapo glasses.  I swear to you nurses could achieve world domination if they weren't so busy saving the rest of us rubes.

Two of the kids had parent teacher conferences.  We found this on Atticus's locker and it was all I could do to maintain my composure.  Thankfully I had our son's face staring up at me; seven-year-old boys don't exactly appreciate their mothers embarrassing them at school with tears.

I kept it together.  Barely.

We've maintained our wild lifestyle with this week's game de rigueur, Mancala.

I really thought the boys were too young to grasp how the game is played, but Derek taught them and I was proven wrong, which really is nice sometimes.  They even managed to sneak a game in this morning before school.  You know you love something when you ask to play it at 7 a.m.

We've been entertaining a distinguished visitor to our hydrangea bush.  

I am alerted to his presence not by anything as bourgeois as a doorbell; no, only a Caedmon will do, who cries out in delight anytime his new friend is near.

Caedmon never misses an opportunity to educate the ignorant on the way of the Calvin and the Hobbes.  The cardinal seems to be a willing student.

I hope you all had a wonderful, wonderful week, full of your own versions of Mancala and cardinals, but hopefully noticeably devoid of pupil dilation.

Spirit Trees

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but any season, I love the view out our bedroom window.

From green leaves with yellow berries one week to yellow and red leaves with yellow berries the next, this tree is ever-changing and ever-beautiful.

This scene often makes me think of one of the latter books in Orson Scott Card's Ender series, where the humans encounter an alien species who, at the end of their lives, are planted, and they then get to live another life as a tree.

Naturally, this leads me to another question:  What is my spirit tree?

As ever, I can't decide on a single selection for myself.  For example:  During the coldest, driest part of winter, I am most certainly a birch.

For real, though:  That up there is the closest tree-depiction I've ever seen to my own two legs at the height of eczema season.  Dry?  Check.  Peeling?  Check.  Grotesque?  Check.  If the branches on this tree were by turns obsessively applying thick lotion and itching itself to death, we'd have to just go ahead and name this tree Kristy and be done with it.

This is my spirit tree in April and May, when I'm transitioning from running tights and capris back to shorts but my poor skin hasn't seen the sun in months and is recovering from the above eczema madness.

This was my spirit tree when our kids were small and believed that my most important role in the universe was to act as their own personal jungle gym.  Poor tree.  What it needs is a nap, maybe a shower, and for her kids to get a few more birthdays under their belts.  

And this is MOST CERTAINLY DEFINITELY me when someone is attempting to communicate with me without prior authorization early in the morning:

I think chirpy morning people who inflict themselves upon others absolutely deserve to have apples chucked at them.  

I was one of Bob Ross's happy little trees this week when my friend used her apples for good and invited us over to pick a few from her own generous tree, which I then turned into crock pot apple crisp with New York Vanilla ice cream.  Question:  What is New York Vanilla ice cream?  It was right next to the plain old vanilla, but Caedmon chose New York.  I couldn't taste a difference, but then my taste buds are somewhat less than professionally trained.



Tell me, people of the internet:  What is your spirit tree?  Can you pick just one?  If so, how did obtain this superpower otherwise known as decisiveness?

Halloween, Take Six

The theme for this year's Halloween costumes, I believe, was "Fine."  They were fine.  Nothing extravagant, nothing high-maintenance, just fine.  Of course, when it comes to Halloween, "fine" suits me right down to the ground.  It seems to have become one of those holidays where America has done what it does best, which is to throw so much money at it that it becomes virtually unrecognizable and no longer much fun.  How many parents did I talk to this year whose kids' threw out-and-out tantrums because it wasn't precisely what they wanted?  Too many.  Our children obviously would never do that, because they are so perfectly well-behaved at all times.  Or they had the looming specter of their father and I eating every last piece of their candy at the slightest hint of whining.  One of those two.

Adelaide's was my favorite, because I had to do jack squat to put it together.  She is now old enough to costume herself.  Hallelujah.

Dapper Derek there in the background went as Dapper Derek.

This vampire already owned her white t-shirt, black pants, black cardigan, and that red tie belonged to Derek's grandpa.  The black satin was culled from my scrap fabric bin, and while she did wonder for five seconds if I might hem it for a cape, my hysterical laughter answered that.  I never even had to utter the word "No."  I did graciously loan her a safety pin to secure it to her clothing for trick-or-treating, because I am a generous monarch, always going out of my way for the serfs who inhabit my kingdom.  The blood- or red lipstick- was also loaned by Us.  That's the Royal We in action, to you peasants.

Adelaide was the tiniest bit put out when people kept mistaking her for some kind of scary Harry Potter; for me this only enhanced her costume.  We did not make the mistake of voicing this opinion to Daughter.

Caedmon was Batman.  

Cutest- I mean FIERCEST- Batman ever.

He had, at one point, mentioned something about being a ghost, but when I realized I didn't have enough white fabric on hand to make this happen, I ever so gently steered him toward super hero-dom.  I did not say words like "cape," "muscle costume," "we already have all these things," but I did speak about such high-falutin' concepts as "honor," "bravery," "protecting all the other little kids out on Halloween."  Caedmon ate this up like the tastiest deception he's ever consumed.  Adelaide rolled her eyes.  Atticus was too worried about his own costume to pay any attention to how his mother may or may not be manipulating holidays to fit her own whims.

Atticus wanted to be a dragon.  He's had grand plans for me for months:  How I could sew spikes down the back of his shirt, and craft wings that would attach to his back, and figure out a way to get fabric flames on something that he could hold in his mouth.  This was a subject of great humor to me, as I had no intention of doing any of those things.  I told him he could wear the costume he already owned, and when he protested that it was an Iron Man costume, I pointed out that the print on it was CLEARLY dragon muscles, not human, and after all, it came with a dragon mask, didn't it?

The truth is my dear friend Shayla handed a sack full of costume items to us awhile back (which included both of this year's costumes), and I have no idea if that mask is supposed to go with that costume, or if it's even a dragon.  All that mattered was that Atticus believed it, which he eventually chose to, but not before proposing a compromise to me:  He would wear the costume, but only if I sewed some wings to the sleeves of it, made out of some felt still in its Clearance wrapper he'd found in my fabric bin.  Oh, and it needed to start here and end here, and he wanted the bottoms of the wings to be cut in scoops, like this.  He is a canny negotiator.

This is why you always take a moment to poke through the Clearance bin at craft stores:  37¢ in 2012 is 2015's dragon wings.  

One of the best parts of the night was when we walked up to the house of an elderly gentleman sitting in front of his house with two bowls:  One with candy, and one with rocks.  The children got to pick an item from each, and I am not kidding you, the air around that house was filled with cries of, "Rocks!"  "Dad, look!  I got a ROCK!"  "Wow, look at this rock!"  No sarcasm, no irony, nothing; those kids were genuinely thrilled to be receiving a rock along with a sweet.  

Now, yes, they were smooth and polished rocks, but still, ROCKS.  Somehow that guy had the right idea, and was a popular destination in our part of town.

I can't help but wonder if he had one of these bad boys:

I remember asking for and receiving one of these for Christmas as a kid.  Shockingly, the results didn't exactly match those advertised.

Oh, yes, and for those of you keeping track (please tell me you don't), this has been our cheapest Halloween yet, because we already owned every last piece of these costumes.  So I win!  Except now, looking back at more extravagant Halloweens in our past where we spent all of $5 total, I'm amazed at how cute our children were in their little costumes.  Remember Caedmon the Chick?!  Or Atticus the Roasting Pan Turtle?  Or Adelaide the Tiger, and the first real post on the blog?

Deep breath, and repeat after me:  I will not get sentimental over this ridiculous holiday, I will not get sentimental over this ridiculous holiday, I will not get sentimental over this ridiculous holiday...

A Sunshiney List

• As some of you know, I regularly treat Halloween as a competition with Ghosts of Kristy Past (Ghost of Kristys Past?  Ghost of Kristies Past?  I see a 'y' at the end and desperately want to turn it into a plural 'ies,' but as I've explained to countless people over the years THAT'S NOT HOW YOU SPELL MY NAME.  What is the proper plural of the Dickensian term?) to see who can spend the absolute least amount of money on costumes for our children.  With three costumes completed, I can happily report that I am winning.  Detailed, self-indulgent report to come.

• With the knowledge that glasses will soon be gracing the face of our daughter, I did what I do and turned to books and a beloved librarian for help.  You see, I had all manner of picture books featuring bespectacled protagonists ready for her when she was younger, the Arthur series and such, because I had no doubt that our children would need glasses, given the appalling eyesight Derek and I are in possession of.  But then they got older and older and had one astonishing report of 20/20 vision after another, and I grew a little lax in keeping a mental catalogue of "glasses in books for our poor, nearly-blind children."  Now Adelaide is, ahem, less than pleased about the idea of wearing glasses, and I have no books ready for her!  (The horror.)  Enter beloved librarian:  "CathyIneedyourhelpAdelaideandglassesandwretchednessandNOBOOKSPREPAREDandanguish!"  She, in turn, calmly reached out to ALL THE LIBRARIANS IN THE STATE and is even now compiling a list of books for me, because she is magical.  
• Note:  This is aaaallll aside from Harry Potter.  Of course I thought of Harry Potter with his glasses, but Adelaide has read all of those, so I need books in addition to HP.  Preferably a female character, who is not stupid, or insipid, or annoying, or too age-inappropriate.  Honestly, I don't try to be difficult to please, it just... happens.

• You would think that, after one particularly memorable night of watching rerun after rerun of Unsolved Mysteries years ago, I would have learned that there are just some shows that you don't watch alone when the darkness outside your windows is concealing God only knows what.  Last night, however, I decided that since I had some sewing to do and the kids were in bed and Derek wasn't home, it would be a positively splendid idea to watch an episode or three of The Twilight Zone.  I mean, I LOVE that show!  What could go wrong?

Sometimes I am a slow learner.

Many things, friends.  Many things could go wrong.  Granted, most of the wrong things were happening within the confines of my own brain, but as Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore said, "Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"

So comforting.

And the Running of the Deer

This morning was chilly and wet and blustery, which means I had the forest preserve all to myself.

Did I almost break my neck (twice) because the leaves were thick and wet on the path?  Yes.  Did I keep confusing game trails for running trails and losing my sense of direction in the woods?  Yes.  Was I thankful for regular benches to show me that I was on trails for humans and not just deer?  Yes.

Although I did consume a goodly amount The Far Side comics growing up, so I can't say I would have been too terribly surprised to encounter a bespectacled deer sitting on a bench, reading the newspaper.

Another round of Running Trail or Game Trail?  Such a fun game.  Almost as entertaining as the one I just finished, where I pin felt onto Atticus's sleeves, readying myself for an evening of sewing.  Atticus is absolutely positive that a dragon is not a dragon if there are no wings, and I refuse to buy anything for a costume, so we're making do with the felt I found in my scrap fabric bin, all while Adelaide swoops around in the Dracula costume she's putting together.  She keeps making overtures about my blood in what she clearly thinks is an eastern european accent, but really just sounds like she's overdue for an appointment with a speech pathologist.  She's at a bit of a tender age, where we have to be careful how we make fun of her, so I've closeted myself in the bathroom and perched on the edge of the tub, giggling over her interpretation of a vampire and thinking my own thoughts for ten seconds, not to mention scrolling through the photos I took on my run this morning, because I could have sworn I snapped one of the half a dozen deer I startled this morning.

Aha!  Found her!  Can you?