I made a pie last night. Well, I tried. It was brown-sugar-cream pie, a simple enough recipe: you mix up sugar and whatever else in a pot, you pour it in a pre-made pie shell, you bake, you pull pie out of the oven without dropping it, you eat. Not so!

I trudged out into the falling snow to get the ingredients, but the pie ending up not fully setting, even after an entire night cooling in the fridge. And it also has a weird floury aftertaste, so I wonder if I accidentally used the 1/3 measuring scoop instead of the 1/4. I dunno.

Anyway, the pie was an utter failure. E loves pie, so he was very determined to enjoy it this morning. He tried. He found, if he eats the goop just around the crust, it sort of does seem like custard. I appreciate his dedication, but he could get sick and I think I should throw it out when he’s not looking.

My thoughts about making pie are this: It’s not as easy as it may seem. But you know what? Writing is far, far harder. I mean how many times have you spent all this time and careful energy crafting a piece of fiction only to discover that it’s actually flat, or jiggles funny, or tastes off, or explodes all over your oven? For me, countless times. Writing something good is the real hurdle. Making an edible pie? I will do it right, I can. I’m trying again next week.