As usual, the pie came out hideous. My pies, like my cookies, taste very good while looking very bad. My cakes are also tasty, and they are, by far, the most horrendous and laughable of my baking specimens.
It smells like pie in here, so hopefully that's a good sign.
My mother whirls an uncooked pie around and deftly maneuvers her knuckles to make a beautiful, manicured, perfect, scalloped edge. It's an art, and I've never been artistic.
I mangle the edge, which is thicker in some places than it is in others, with my finger tips. I cut it too short in some places and too long in others. I smoosh it into something that fits in the pie plate. I bake an effective pie, not an aesthetic one.
This pie didn't cook long enough, but the mangled edge was getting too brown for my liking. Also, the filling was half-cooked before the crust was even rolled out. I had to stew the dried apricots, and thank the Lord I got mostly canned ones; they, at least, looked like fruit.
Frankenstein is cooling on the counter. I hope the bottom crust isn't raw and doughy, but without eating the pie, which is to be a birthday present, there's simply no way to tell.
I have to be at work at 8:45. That isn't long enough from now.