An all-American Fourth of July morning

I don’t get pies. I never understood the concept of drowning scrumptious fresh fruit in sugar and then pouring the resulting diabetic goo into a tasteless crumbling crust. I have no affinity for pie. My American-as-apple-pie, military-matron mother frequently threatens to disown me as a traitor to our nation. So, in some HGTV-inspired, do-it-yourself mindset of “more is better,” I decided I would attempt my own Fourth of July pre-cookout foray into culinary alchemy with a menu that would make Richard Simmons fall to his knees. Unfortunately, the fireworks would come early this year.

I began with a tight schedule of shifts in which to juggle pie making, cake baking and bread baking in my apartment kitchenette. Everything proceeded with military-like precision. I felt the cadence. I was beginning to experience the pie. But, somewhere between a rather uncomplicated rum cake warm-up and the second pie crust of the morning, the mixer (bought on a late night run to Wal-Mart) went on strike. I shook it. I hit it. I called it a name and then apologized. I unplugged it and re-plugged it in different outlets around the apartment. I even talked dirty to it (this seems to work well with my computer). The coffeemaker came on at one point, but the mixer was not responding. Finally, the mixer buzzed softly to life. But, it refused to twirl. I gave it a patriotic pep talk worthy of Bill Clinton. Perhaps in some commentary on my pie making skills, it then began to shoot flames. I dropped the flaming hand mixer in the dog’s water bowl. A lone firework arced up the refrigerator door. I remembered to yank the cord from the wall. It sizzled into silence. My dog and I watched the display from the hallway.

Building still standing, fire alarm unplugged, eyebrows in tact, and dog out from underfoot, I continued by hand. I turned on NPR for a little soothing Fourth of July commentary and set about rolling each pie crust out with lengthy disdain for all those still snuggled in their beds awaiting the evening's festivities. This never happens with cupcakes. I think I'm done with pies.