Epic Fail

That's pretty much the only way to describe the cherry pie I made this week.

As I was scraping it into the garbage Tuesday night, I asked Justin not to tell my mom. Because she brought me the cherries for the pie.

Cherries my dad picked from the much-lauded cherry tree in the backyard and carefully pitted under intense scrutiny from the resident alpha cook.

The cherry tree only recently started producing -- the first year there was enough for one or two pies. So each cherry was hoarded like a precious gem and bestowed with the utmost discretion upon the favored few. Last year, that did not include me.

When we were home for dad's birthday in August, though, Justin and I noticed that there was an entire freezer pretty much full of cherries. So when mom and dad made plans to visit last weekend, I asked mom if she'd bring some along because "Justin" had a hankering for cherry pie.

Despite what we'd seen in the freezer, I didn't expect her to deliver. But she did. Three pints.

After an afternoon at the art fair the next town over, she thought it would be a good idea to make that pie. It would have been, too, except that I wanted a nap more than I wanted pie. She brought it up more than once and when I shot the idea down the second time with a breezy "gosh mom, I know how to make a pie," it wasn't without a sense of foreboding.

And it's true; in the past, I have made three -- yes, that's right, three -- successful pies. Probably by fluke.

I can't tell you where I went wrong -- I did branch out from the tried and true Betty Crocker recipe, but I was the bad ingredient. And the crust was like leather. Chewy, yet soggy, leather.

And the cherries. Well. They were a little freezer burnt. It hurts to say that. It really does. But they were.

I've determined to master pie crust. Someday. In the meantime, I made cake.

PS -- If you know my mom and happen to see her, don't tell her what I just told you. I'm not going to keep it a secret or anything, but I have to brace myself first.