Pies worthy of a crazed baker

Our church is holding its annual Harvest Ham Dinner today. My apologies to anyone who eats the pies I've made and donated to the cause. One top crust is overworked and the other pie is missing apples because Charlotte decided to help herself. 

By the time I was done, I was ready to tear my hair out. It was too early to start drinking

Oh, and headache day No. 6 was well underway. Seriously, I'm now a full week into waking up with a dull headache, which eventually will work itself into a splitting headache by bedtime. If I'm lucky, I'll go to bed with the beginning of a migraine like I did last night.

But let's not think about that. Let's talk about baking ... with our kids.

For the most part, I love baking with Josie and Charlotte. Here's some evidence of a previous not so spastic reaction to them helping in the kitchen:

My adorable sous chef making apple pies Sept. 20 at the old house.

They make something I already love doing even more fun. Both of them were taught how to properly crack an egg by the time they were 18 months old and they regularly help stir things. It's the only way they'll learn. I'm not about to send future adults out into the world with the only life skill being the knowledge and know-how of ordering coffee at the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru.

No, my kids are going to know how to cook. Unlike their father. He'd burn spaghetti if he didn't set the timer. I'm still trying to teach him how to grill some things. At least he knows how to make (and not turn into charcoal) pancakes. The man could save the world with his pancake flipping skills.

Despite all my loving of teaching baking techniques to the little people in my life, yesterday was one of those days where I was just to the end of my patience. There was screaming and crying and not enough coffee in the world to make it better.

My kids have mad skillz. Ignore the beer. And the mess.

And it was all because I was baking for people other than our family. I don't care if the kids lick the apples before I put them in a pie I'll be serving to them later. But a pie that people are going to get with a meal they've paid for to help support an organization I adore? Ugh. Bring on the headache. And the guilt (over yelling at the kids, not the apple thieving).

While Charlotte was stealing apples out of one pie, I was trying to get top crust ready for the other and before I realized it, I had worked the dough too much and the crust was ... I can't even describe it. I covered the pie with it anyway.

I threw out what was left and put together a single batch of pastry dough to cover the other pie with because I really didn't want to show up with two pies that looked like total shit. That second one was much better, but still - even if no one else was going to know the dish lacked four apple slices, I knew. And that kind of knowing just sucks. Like knowing the other crust was hard before it was put in the oven.

Pretty horrible looking. Happy harvest dinner!

Oy. Want to know what the kids were doing while I was crying in my pastry dough? Laughing at me! OK, not really. But they may as well have been as they flung toys and crayons all over the front room - I still haven't figured out what we're calling that space - and then decided to "help" unpack some of Daddy's stuff. Baseball and footballs cards, anyone? EVERYWHERE. A box filled with beginner magic trick junk? The latest and greatest thing to tackle and beat the snot out of your baby sister over. 

Maybe if I had just cracked open a bottle of wine for lunch I could have avoided the tension all along and the headache would have been a victory worthy of my liver's ability to metabolize alcohol. Instead, I threw the kids in the car, grabbed a coffee at the local Dunkin, finally dropped things off at the Rescue Mission, checked the mail at the other house, handed over my shitty pies (and was told they smelled delicious, so there's that at least) and took the long way home because both kids were sleeping.

My life was peaceful for 20 minutes. It was glorious.