"Electronic"

When I was about 5 or 6 I wondered about electricity.  There were outlets around the house and I didn't understand the magic behind them.  I literally mean behind them because obviously something mysterious was going on behind the wall I couldn't see.  The outlets provided an inlet into hidden magic, but I had a sense that there was something dangerous about it.  This was a very vague danger to me other than I felt pretty certain I'd get in trouble if I stuck something into the outlet hole.

Bro1 happened to come by while I was contemplating this mystery, providing an opportunity.  While I might get in trouble for playing with the outlet, Bro1 never got in trouble for anything.  "C'mere!  Let's see what happens when you stick this darning needle in that hole!"  No sooner than the thought was expressed he committed the deed -- and got blown across the room.  Cool.  It still didn't explain electricity, but at least it gave a definition of "danger".  And yes, I got in trouble even though I wasn't the one who stuck the needle in.  My parents didn't appreciate the technicalities of the offense.

I don't think Bro1 was all that harmed by the experience, but you never know.  It might explain some things?  Besides, he was perfectly able to come up with his own ill-conceived ideas.  Even so, I feel a little regret.  Not too much, but a little.

Come to think of it, I think Sis2 planted the idea in my mind.  Seems to me she should've been the one to get in trouble for instigating, and to carry the regret too.  Where's the justice?!

Ah yes, childhood, where curiosity is discouraged outside of the approved limitations.  It's like another time when I improved our shampoo.  Mom bought 2 kinds, both in economy sizes.  Dandruff shampoo and the other kind.  I figured it would be better to mix both kinds together to eliminate dandruff for everybody.  The clear brown shampoo turned a murky sludge color while the dandruff shampoo looked kind of moldy pea soup.

Mom flipped out so I wasn't going to admit I did it.  Punishments for everybody.  I didn't feel guilty though since my siblings often caused unmerited punishments for me too.  If anything, I thought I should've been rewarded for improving shampoo.  Mom was clearly stifling my creativity and scientific curiosity, but I'm starting to think that it's just as well that I wasn't interested in electronics.  I might've burned down the house or at least destroyed some things -- which is now reminding me of my fascination with matches.  Yeah, just as well I didn't play with electric things anymore... though now I'm remembering getting into the back of the TV and messing with the tubes...

In current events, I made lime meringue pies this week.  The recipe seemed simple.  I was deceived.  It was a mess.  I made it harder by whisking the egg whites by hand and learned you a very big bowl to whisk eggs.  It also took about 20 minutes of arm-numbing whisking.  Cooking the egg yolk mixture required more whisking.  I think my favorite electronic thing this week is an electric blender.

I shared pie with Bro2 and we agree, pie is delicious.  Meringue is spectacular, and not to be confused with white foam at a restaurant.  My strenuous whisking made floating clouds of delicate pleasure.  Mmmm!!!

"Icon"

Last night I happily settled down to what someone called "food porn", in this case, The Great British Baking Show.  The theme for this competitive cook off was "pie".  I love pie, and TV is a great way to enjoy it without calories.

I was confused right off the bat.  The contestants made Wellingtons.  That's interesting, but it isn't pie in my mind.  One of the hosts took a side trip and ate eel pie.  My face still screws up painfully at the thought of it, and I wouldn't call that a pie either.  It was kind of like a hot pocket.  Then, the contestants made a molded meat pie.  Okay?  I sort of see the "pie" in this, but not really.

I was feeling very unBritish about this point when they said the grand finale was to be "American" pies.  Yay!  I sat and ate rhubarb gooseberry sauce (which is good, but not quite as yummy as rhubarb mulberry) and scowled as the British slammed American pies as "too sweet".  Well!  They should try some of my rhubarb.

I'll admit, I didn't realize my pies were "American".  I thought a pie is a pie.  Maybe I should've realized "As American as apple pie" is often said because pie is an icon of Americanism?  But you can say the same thing about hot dogs and Germans make sausages.  I imagine they make something hot doggish.  I figured the same was true for pies.  French make tarts, and that's fairly similar, right?

I've made a lot of pies in my life.  I should go over there and teach them how it's done because British ideas of American pies is just wrong (though Ryan, the winner, clearly got it right with a key lime and ginger beauty).

I'll also admit that the more I thought of British ideas of American sweetness, the more I remembered pies that were disgustingly sweet.  Okay, if all you've ever had is that kind of thing I can understand a preconceived distaste for pie.  Block those images from your mind.  Think of the natural sweetness of fruit in a flaky pastry.  Mmmm.  I've even blogged about pies before which you can see here.

I am not about to touch the subject of current political relations with the US and Great Britain and other NATO allies because it's just an embarrassment like too sweet pies.  Just let me offer my continued apologies and express appreciation for the big balloon and your protests.  I don't think pie could even make the president behave properly.

On happier news, despite the deer and other vamints repeatedly mowing down my garden I got my first tomatoes.  Hooray!

"Sweet"

I thought about ranting about my parents’ anti-sugar, anti-processed flour reign of terror for “sweet”, but that’s been done.  Let me instead tell you about my subversive tactics for lifting the restrictions of that awful regime…

I told Dad that there were ripe blackberries, giant, enormous blackberries that would taste wonderful in a pie, but alas, you just can’t make a pie without sugar and flour.  So sad.  No pie.  Such a shame too, because they were really sweet blackberries.  Wouldn’t hardly take much sugar at all to make such a pie.

I saw Dad’s resolve weakening.  He suggested honey, and I said that would make a gummy pie, but a touch of clove and cinnamon would really enhance those berries.  I let him gnaw on that a bit while I watched him swallow more than normally necessary and chew the inside of his cheek.

“Why don’t you go pick some of those berries and bring them home?” he said.  “No, it’s not worth the bother to bring them back.  I mean I would if I were making a pie, but you know berries won’t hold up when you’ve got to carry them that far.  They’ll get too smashed up.”

It was a standoff.  I watched Dad continue to swallow his Pavlovian saliva and contemplated my purple fingers.  Dad obviously wrestled with his conscience of healthy living and pie.  I could see pie was winning.

“Why don’t you take me to where you found them and I’ll just eat some there?” he countered.  “No way!  You’d eat them all.  Besides, they don’t care if I eat them, but they won’t like it if you go there.”  Check.  My 8 or 10 year old self could pick berries lots of places a grown man couldn’t, and Dad knew it.  I didn’t bother to tell him that the berries were on free land.

“Don’t you like pie, Dad?  It’s mostly healthy.  I mean, it’s mostly fruit, and fruit’s good for us.”

Dad’s conscience was on the ropes.  I licked my purple fingers and started wandering very slowly towards the door.

“Okay!  Okay!  One pie!”  Checkmate.  I made two pies.  After all, the crust recipe is for 2 pies, and you don’t really expect me to know how to half a recipe at that age, do you Dad?

I made sure there was some sort of fruit or berries in season for the rest of the summer.  We ate a lot of pies.  Mom made strawberry shortcake.  Eventually we even got cookies.  Dad bragged about my pies to Grandma, and she taught me to use ice water and not to touch the crust except to put it in the tin and crimp the edges.  Sadly, this pie wisdom has been rendered obsolete by ready-made pie crusts, but I still could make a crust if I had to, and I cut air vents in the top in a wheat pattern like our women always have because as Mom says, “It’s tradition.  We have to.” Or for the longer Mom explanation, wheat represents plenty.

Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?  Can she bake a cherry pie, Charming Billy?

For those of you who read my post about spring water, I took pictures of one of the lawnmowers and a bit of the trout pond.  The kid is one of twins and they were awesome cute romping around.

The irises and the birdhouses are pics from work in the secret garden that only me and Br. Gary ever see, and in case you can’t tell from my general good mood, I think the internal audit of my department at work went great J