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Monday, December 5, 2016

Apology Pies, and Ramblings



It's been awhile, and I don't like that. I don't like that my computer home has been empty and neglected. Although I haven't been present on my own website, I've been active in other areas and I'm so incredibly excited for when I can share what this little secret project is! This project comes with a lot of tears and laughter, and I wanted to share an exert from it! So without anymore babbling or excuses, here is a little knowledge for you. The best piece of advise I've ever been giving is to never underestimate the power of an apology pie.

My husband is such a patient man. I know what you’re thinking, “EVERYONE says that about their husband, even though they probably want to punch him in the face.”
 The answer to that is yes.
But really… He is really just a gentle creature who deals with crazy super well. I usually am pretty good about admitting when I’m being crazy too- well after it has all happened, and I’m crying on the kitchen floor. Usually when I get too crazy I apologize and he tells me it’s nothing that he can’t handle. Then I start to cry because I’m an over flowing laundry basket of emotions.  
  Today I was really a special breed of crazy. Today I was an asshole, so this is me pulling on “I was wrong” hat and writing about why my husband needs a metal, and why I need to eat an excessive amount of carbs (not that I ever need an excuse to do that).
 We’ve had an insane week, more so than usual. We just moved into a really sweet cookie cutter, Pleasantville type neighborhood where 90% of the Moms drive a Dodge minivan, in off white. It's rather surreal. 
Anyway- I hate moving, but I had no idea how much I hated moving until I did it with a toddler. Literally it’s something that comes out of my worst nightmares. In fact this move was so bad I can actually think of a list of 400 things I would rather do than ever move with a toddler again. I won’t give you the full list, but here are the top 3 so you get the idea. 
1)Setting my hair on fire
2)Doing a Kale Juicing cleanse
3)Watching 12 hours of Daniel Tiger. 
  yeah.
On top of having a nightmare little gremlin child with my bad attitude, everything that could go wrong did. But those are tales for another day, because no one wants to hear me bitch about moving.
  To add to this cluster of madness, I really don’t do well with change so moving is a really tough mental adventure for me, but also for my husband because he has to put up with me. It’s not an easy task dealing with me and our toddler but he does it. If we are being honest he does it so well. 
  Fast forward from all of this to today. I was a jerk, and I know it. I was so cranky with him for not changing lightbulbs that I literally didn’t say a word to him for 3 hours. OVER LIGHTBULBS. It was such a disaster, even I knew I was wrong but didn’t want to admit it. When he went to do work I sat in stewed in my shitty attitude like it was a bad diaper. I didn’t want anyone to talk to me and tell me I was wrong. Even though I knew I was… 
 We all get into a defensive stage when we know we’ve failed. It’s the same type of tone that we get with our mother in laws when they tell us all the wrong ways we are raising our kids. The tone that can be felt, not just heard. It scatters like emotional glass, and wounds hearts. That was my tone for a few days now, and I know it has to stop. I knew a simple apology wasn’t going to heal this wound. I know that my snappy tone, and angry words hurt the man that I love. In an answer to my snappiness he rightfully got snappy, which fueled my fire even more. 
 I said things that I didn’t mean, and I let the situation around us affect, no control every aspect of my life. How do we move forward and away from the shitty, soul crushing attitude? 
  As I stewed in my own self pity, and hate I remembered a very important fact that is hammered into women generation after generation. “The way to a Mans heart is through his stomach.”
 This fact is particularly true to my sasquatch-esque husband. He loves to eat, and loves that I can cook. It’s probably why he kept my emotionally unstable, flabby bellied ass around in the first place. He’s not much of a sweets guy, but there is one suburb morsel that he likes. Lemon Meringue Pie. It can’t be gross store bought pie, or have meringue made from powder. It has to be the real deal, fresh lemon juice and all.  
 With the words I said weighing heavy on my mind, I picked up my emotional baggage and purse (that might as well be baggage) andwent to the fancy health food store and picked up five Meyer lemons. Normally, being the cheapskate that I am I buy the 2/1 lemons that are small and hard. I knew I had messed up so this was serious. I sent $6.32 on lemons. LEMONS for god sake. I made sure I picked the ripest, most yellow little friends I could find. The were mocking me as I took my basket to the counter. The check out clerk was young, and hipster-y. He asked me if I was making environmentally friendly lemon pledge. You really can’t make this up, he was the typical ironic sweater trust fund baby, who's girlfriend was probably named Moonflower. I bet they met at Coachella. I laughed, and said “No, I’m making my husband an apology pie.” 
  I heard the feminist behind me scoff. I didn’t have a single care to give about her judgement. I look my expensive lemons in a paper bag and left. Mumbling curse words all the way to my gas guzzling Mom mobile. I didn’t belong in that stupid store, and had I just played nice I wouldn’t be in the situation I was. 
  I got home and started on the homemade pie crust. It’s a recipe that I’ve used since I could google, with a few tweaks of course. I stood over the grater moving the frozen butter up and down, not really paying attention. I nicked my finger against the metal grater, and it hurt. “I deserved that” I mumbled to whatever higher power was listening. The crust was resting in the fridge when I started juicing the lemons. Of course we had just moved so I had no idea where the little juicing tool was. I used the bad end of the soon while the lemon juice burned my finger. It took me less time to push out a baby than it did to juice these lemons. The last lemon was like the juice that never ends. It just kept coming… Pulp and seeds were in an abundance. I couldn’t find my strainer so I used a flour sifter to get all the impurities out from my labor of love lemons. 
  If you’ve ever made a lemon meringue pie you know that the curd is a delicate creature that requires attention to detail and mostly love. As you pour the ingredients into a double boiler, or a pot if you know what you are doing… you have to babysit them, and stir like you’ve never stirred before. After it gets thick and textured in all the right ways you can set it aside, it no longer requires the babysitting, and dedication to its consistency. The pie crust went into prebake, and then came the meringue. I love making meringue. I love how something so gross looking (egg whites) turns into this beautiful, fluffy pillow like goodness. It’s like a Cinderella transformation but with food. I was the Fairy God Mother of egg whites, but instead of a wand I had a KitchenAid.
   Once the pie crust is baked you fill the golden brown crust the lemon curd. It’s always a beautiful color contrast between the two. Then you delicately pillow and whip the meringue on top of the pie into soft peaks. If you’re lucky you will get the perfect meringue curl similar to the curl on top of soft serve ice cream. It’s satisfying, and frustrating all in the same little package. After you achieve, or fail at the meringue curl you put it in the oven so that way it gets this golden brown hue to the white meringue, in turn creating a crunchy yet soft topping for the decadent pie. The aroma that fills your kitchen will make it hard to focus on anything else. In that moment there is utter bliss. (I promise there is a point to me describing the pie like this, just hang in there.)
  I pulled the pie out at the perfect moment, and there is was in it’s whole apologetic pie glory. I stared at it, and waited for my tall guy to get home. I sat at the kitchen table reflecting on how great of a wife I wanted to be. Then the epiphany hit me like a train. Apologizing in marriage is like making a pie. The crust is the argument itself, the foundation for your frustration and anger. Then the bitter filling is where you realize that maybe you went to far. Your heart and mind are full of things, that make it so you aren’t quite sure how to feel. On top of all that emotion, and filling is your apology. The fluffy, yet crunchy apology. Then you get to cut the pie and consume it. 
 At first you don’t want to do it. You want to be right and stew in your grouchiness. Then you move past it, and admit defeat. You apologize and do anything to make it right. I don’t like arguing with my husband, and quite honestly we aren’t good at fighting. We don’t stay mad long, well he doesn’t. I, however am petty and often wrong. Marriage is all about learning, and loving. Everyday is a different challenge. Even if everything is going wrong, there will always be magic in spending every day with your best friend. So swallow your pride, and apologize. This is for both husbands and wives, because under that layer of frustration and anger is love. 

  Above all else, never underestimate the power of an apology pie.

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S is a snarky Mom, with a lot to say. This blog covers every thing from an abundant amount of vomit, to things that are just too sticky. You'll find recipes, laughs, and honesty. With a toddler, a dog, and a really patient husband this Mama can accomplish things.