Just when I thought my domesticated days were behind me (after all, I married a man who cooks!), I got inspired to bake a pie with the apples that continue to carpet our backyard. Since I make a big mess in the crust-making process, I had decided it wasn’t worth the effort. I’ve owned a number of rolling pins throughout my long career as the family cook, but the last vestige of my crust-rolling days had already been reassigned to someone else’s kitchen.
“They” say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that expression has proven true for me countless times. There’s a really good reason my middle name is “Workaround.” So I looked around the house for a stand-in “rolling pin.” Right around the corner from the kitchen, in the hall, I saw this:
Do you see it? That candle chimney worked better than any rolling pin I ever owned.
My pies would never win a blue ribbon at the county fair, like this polyester suit I made for Paul in 1973:
Are you … laughing? You wouldn’t be laughing, would you? (At least through the years I’ve gotten better at arranging pictures on the wall. Oh, my.)
My pies never turn out very pretty.
But they usually taste good enough to eat.
We aren’t sure how many Weight Watcher points we paid for this indulgence, but some pleasures just can’t be measured.