This week, I’m afraid I have been terribly:
Yes that’s right, dear chitterlings. This week, I, along with several esteemed colleagues, have been rather preoccuPIEd. It began early last week, when, quite simultaneously, we all fell about ourselves over a Piemaker! Can you imagine our mutual chagrin when we discovered ourselves attempting to squeeze through the door of his quaint eatery ‘The Pie Hole’ at the very same time? Quelle Catastrophe! Miss Pamela, the first to have lain eyes on him, forgot all her virtue and began threatening to use her demure hair ribbon as a garotte! Geraldine, meanwhile, joined the fray by brandishing a weighty volume from her bag, suggesting a good pummeling. Not wanting to disarray the elaborate cornucopia I had balanced in my curls, I stepped back from the ruckus, and with the aid of a handy soda dispenser, quelled the warm spirits all round. Once we had all dried off, and were sat most peaceably in a booth with large malts, the following truce was agreed upon:
To LEAVE the most delectable pie-maker (who is, in any case, a work of fiction) to his travail, and revel in our own expertise by the creation of a CELEBRATORY PIE.
Ah, dear crumpetines, this is indeed Esther’s Advice to dispel strife and care on all occasions. The next time you are worn with grief and dismay, and are sitting on the floor surrounded by wrappings, sobbing and cramming cream buns into your mouth, raise yourself up, brush off that icing sugar, and shout gaudiloquently:
I WILL MAKE PIE!
If you are fortunate, and pray to St. Escoffier, your pie may even look a smidgeon like this:
(DELICIOUS FOOD DISCLAIMER: RETREAT A SAFE DISTANCE FROM KEYBOARD TO PREVENT DROOL DAMAGE. Esther Crumpet will be in no way held responsible for salivation based malfunctions.)
Of course, sweet readers, those will the skills of Esther Crumpet are few and far between, so YOURS may not look quite so glorious. It is of no matter, the important lesson learned is that you have CREATED a dish of which to be proud and SAVOUR, rather than weeping in a buttery mess into your empty packet of prozac.
Until next time, pikelets!