Day Three-Ninety-Eight: Nuclear cookery

Pies.

Libby is infamous for her pies.

I know I've mentioned Libby's pies to you before, diary. They seemed a natural subject, as pies constitute one of the few things Libby's attempted that she's never managed to get right. Pies are her Achilles' heel, whomever Achilles may be (no one's ever explained that to me before, and I don’t think anyone knows), and a lofty goal Libby may never reach.

Pies.

Libby's pies are grotesque. I don't know if it's the ingredients, overcooking or her own unwashed hands, but every pie Libby's ever made has turned out bad. Trying to eat one is like trying to gnaw on a brick. You can't do it, you shouldn't do it, and, ultimately, even if Libby's standing over you with her fists primed, you won't do it. Libby will maim; trying to eat the pie will kill.

It seemed only natural to me, therefore, that I try to make up with Libby by baking her an awesome pie.

I didn't know how to make pies. They were a mystery to me. What constitutes a pie, after all? Crust, wrapped around succulent innards. How do the innards get inside the sealed pie? Are they teleported there during baking? Do they grow naturally out of the dough? Is it horrible dark magic?

No, in fact. It's none of those things.

Bora has some downtime when people are out working, so I went to her and asked her how I might go about making a pie. A delicious pie. A pie that would rock the heavens. I've never had her pies before, but I've had ROBERT'S pies, and they rocked, maybe not the heavens, but most of the earth. Bora's almost as good as Robert was at cooking, so I figured she might have a secret pie specialty up her sleeve. Lack of sleeves. Whatever.

(Seriously. She goes about in the same dress all year 'round. I won't, uh, complain, but… doesn't she get cold…?)

She was happy to show me how to make a pie, and though she admitted less proficiency at it than Robert, she still knew exactly how it was done. There are three steps to pie-making:

1.) Make the dough

2.) ???

3.) Profit!

…

No, wait, that isn't right… what the hell…?

Sorry. There are FOUR steps to making a pie.

1.) Make the dough

2.) Put the stuff IN the dough

3.) ???

4.) Profit!

There. That's better. (I didn't get to see what Bora did during the third step, she hustled me out of the kitchen to prep for lunch.)

So we made the pie. She got out a tin pie plate, we rolled the dough, we made a cap for the ingredients, and we got a bunch of fresh blueberries from a passing merchant. Then we stuffed 'em all into the dough and, well, out I went, feeling a bit heady from being in close proximity to Bora for so long. Eventually, an hour later, profit!

Libby sat down to lunch a bit late, followed closely by Grayson. I ran to the bar, asked for the pie, and personally delivered it to my wife. She stared at the thing with no small amount of surprise.

"You made me a pie?"

"Yep!"

Her eyes narrowed. "It… it smells good."

"I hope so! Try it!"

Cautiously grabbing a fork, watched at every step by Grayson, she dipped into the top of the pie, inspected the chunk she pulled from it, and offered it to her son. She sniffed the piece and took a bite.

His eyes lit up. And, oddly, he frowned - but only for a second. Then he smiled brightly.

"Go on, mom, have some pie. It's great."

Libby dipped her fork in a second time, accepting a helping for herself. Then, her eyes lighting in the same fashion as Grayson, she took another bite - and another - and another - and several more. Grayson joined in, and soon the pie was reduced to crumbs and an empty tin.

Libby sat back, burping. Yet she didn't smile. Hell, if anything, she looked pissed.

"You made a great pie," she breathed.

"… thanks…" I said, suddenly uncertain.

"You know… I always wanted… to make a great pie…"

"… yeah…"

"And you…" She burped. "You beat me to it…"

"… uh…"

"… gods… damn you…"

With a sudden flurry of vicious movement, Libby swept the pie tin from the table, stood up and smacked me in the face. I hit the ground, stunned, confused, and a little hungry. I'd hoped to get in on the pie.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THIS, THEN? EH?" Libby pointed at the empty tin. "TRYIN' TO SHOW ME UP? SHOW THE WIFE HOW MUCH BETTER THE HUSBAND IS AT MAKIN' A DAMNED PIE?! WELL FUCK YOU, DRAGOMIR! FUCK YOU RIGHT TO HELL!"

She turned to leave. Hesitated. Dipped down, grabbed the pie tie, and licked the remaining blueberries out of the bottom. Then she hurled it in my face and stormed out of the Beefiary, Grayson prancing in her wake.

I had no words. No words at all.

Two days of failure. Tomorrow… ugh… should I keep doing this tomorrow…?

Sincerely,

Dragomir the Stymied