Here's a story I never get tired of sharing:
A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) defies convention by being a single, dude's dude who loves to bake.
One Sunday, after a night of spirited imbibing and more than a few hairs of the dog that bit him, he decided to alleviate his condition by baking himself a pie. All Sunday this guy slaves away in his kitchen while watching the Vikings lie down on the field. He gets the crust, whips up the filling from scratch, does the whole nine yards for himself.
One dude, one pie. I love it.
This guy's gung ho about making this pie for himself, thinking everything's going to be all right if he can just get some sugary, home-baked goodness into him. I can't blame him, it sounds great.
So he gets his blueberry pie all made up, it's in the oven and baking. He's still a little under the influence when he takes it out and sets the still-hot-to-the-touch pie on the counter to cool. Knowing it's only for himself (which I love, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone, even his best friend who lived just across the hall), he gets out the sugar and coats the top of the pie with a gorgeous, heady amount of confectioner's sugar.
He waits.
The pie cools.
The game ends.
The Vikings have lost once again. He goes over to the counter to cut himself a giant slice of this delicious homemade pie. Plates it, gets a drink and plops back down on the couch to indulge. Takes one massive forkful and immediately spits it back out. In his still-hazy baking, he mistakenly grabbed the salt instead of sugar. Crestfallen, he shakes his head and dumps the entire pie into the garbage.
A Sunday wasted.
When he told us this tale of baking gone wrong, my better half asked him "Couldn't you just scrape the salt off the top and still eat it?"
His response was a frustrated "Nah, I salted the shit outta that pie."
A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) defies convention by being a single, dude's dude who loves to bake.
One Sunday, after a night of spirited imbibing and more than a few hairs of the dog that bit him, he decided to alleviate his condition by baking himself a pie. All Sunday this guy slaves away in his kitchen while watching the Vikings lie down on the field. He gets the crust, whips up the filling from scratch, does the whole nine yards for himself.
One dude, one pie. I love it.
This guy's gung ho about making this pie for himself, thinking everything's going to be all right if he can just get some sugary, home-baked goodness into him. I can't blame him, it sounds great.
So he gets his blueberry pie all made up, it's in the oven and baking. He's still a little under the influence when he takes it out and sets the still-hot-to-the-touch pie on the counter to cool. Knowing it's only for himself (which I love, he had no intention of sharing it with anyone, even his best friend who lived just across the hall), he gets out the sugar and coats the top of the pie with a gorgeous, heady amount of confectioner's sugar.
He waits.
The pie cools.
The game ends.
The Vikings have lost once again. He goes over to the counter to cut himself a giant slice of this delicious homemade pie. Plates it, gets a drink and plops back down on the couch to indulge. Takes one massive forkful and immediately spits it back out. In his still-hazy baking, he mistakenly grabbed the salt instead of sugar. Crestfallen, he shakes his head and dumps the entire pie into the garbage.
A Sunday wasted.
When he told us this tale of baking gone wrong, my better half asked him "Couldn't you just scrape the salt off the top and still eat it?"
His response was a frustrated "Nah, I salted the shit outta that pie."
