He called me at about seven. The family festivities had already come and gone and I was pacing the house between episodes of Firefly, restless for something to take my mind off of my non-Thanksgiving-related worries, when Eric called. He needed shortening.
He stopped by to borrow some and promised me we'd watch a movie and eat pie later. Sure enough, a few hours later, in the middle of the Peanuts' Thanksgiving Special, Eric called and told me that all was ready.
As soon as the special was over, I drove up to his house, more curious than I was eager. When I arrived he was just about to remove the pie from the oven. He opened the door, and Eric, his mother Maggie, and I beheld what appeared to be a perfect pie, waiting inside.
"How do I get it out of there?" Eric asked his mother, reminding us all that, perhaps, there are certain consequences (ineptitude among them) to only baking once a year. He kept reaching his hands into the hot oven and having to pull them out again immediately.
"Well, Eric," Maggie replied, wryly, "some people like to pull the rack out...."
As she said it, she did it, her mittened hand beckoning the hot rack, as it were. Almost immediately, however, tragedy struck as the pie irritably sprang forward, flying toward its freedom with a will.
Eric screamed and desperately lunged for the pie, which he caught, and then screamed again as the pie repaid his kindness with pain. He withdrew his careful hands, sending the hurtling pie into an irrecoverable tailspin which ended abruptly on the kitchen floor.
Eric was devastated. Maggie felt responsible. I could not stop laughing.
It smelled delicious.
Later, Eric was heard to utter that his heart was broken, but he would bake again....
I believe he will. And I wish him well.
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