Which is, technically, always a true statement. Whatever time of year it is, it's that time. But what time of year is it, specifically?
Pie time.
Aww yeah.
If you ask me, the holidays are just luscious reason after reason to have slice after slice of flaky, fruity, creamy, just one more bite-worthy pie. Only thing is, someone has to make one. I mean, it's not that hard. Especially if someone who has made a dizzying variety of pies over decades, decided to write a big long blog pie-prep post, explaining it all, step by step.
Wait, this is starting to seem like a recipe. Should I be writing this down?
Indeed I should, because the recipe I'm about to share for this year's most featured pie, is my original creation, though it was refined thanks to lots of helpful input from friends, and good ole' fashioned, messing up. The recipe I'm about to share with you should last the test of time, and hopefully delight some long dark winterers, for generations to come.
First, I'll tease ya, with a photo.
MMMMMMMMM, RIGHT
And it smells? Dry Erasable.
How to start? Where to begin? It starts with a goal. What difference do you feel like making in your life? It can be anything. Maybe you want to write a novel, read a novel, run a marathon, quit watching 5-minute Craft videos, start a business. Dream big. Aim high. Whatever. Just get a dream in your heart and then draw a big circle. Mouth watering yet? Just wait.
My ambition. My goal. My fantastical pie in the ethereal sky happens to be transforming myself from a DIY blogschooler, to Certified Educator of Other People's Children.
Part of that journey included being all up in several classrooms, for months, observing masters in their field at work, and trying to take notes, provide support, and even teach a little bit of science. They call it Pre-Clinical Experiences. And so do I. Because that's what it's called. PCE for short. That's right, one letter off from PIE.
It's all connected.
Next step to making this one-of-a-kind treat? Nothing to do but do it. Get started. Take that first jog, write that first chapter, put down the phone at flashing font promising five great ideas involving cement and bubble wrap. Do the work. Then, reward yourself everyday by coming back to the white board and coloring in that day's slice.
Once the pie reflects that day's progress, and this is very important, be sure to stare at the board for a little bit. Don't skip this step. Squint, tilt your head, and focus on where you are going, never doubting for a second that someday every inch of your pie will be encrusted in old dry erase scrawls.
Really let your belief sit and congeal for a minute. You'll thank me later.
Later, when cars (that's right, more than one now) come out of the night and smash you and your kid to pieces.
Later, when there's no more family car and the bus doesn't go where you need it to go, anytime you need it to go there.
And even later, when what was billed as a simple out-patient surgery becomes a surprise staycation of convalescence that sucks up sick time and many earnest intentions.
These, plus minor trifles like head colds, defunct appliances, and ailing pets, will try to trash your tart. They can ruin its form, rendering it incomplete, only full of doubt, which tastes just awful.
They can make you wonder if that gap-toothed set of uncolored spaces will mock you forever. Then it wouldn't even be a circle. It wouldn't even be pi. Unthinkable. How to avoid this result? Well, like most prized recipes, it's going to take something you might not have known you had.
How's that for a secret ingredient? Sorry to be cryptic, but how was I supposed to know that, as I progressed through my PCE, every time it seemed the fates were conspiring against my bedroom whiteboard being adorned with a full radius of scribbled slices, someone close to me would step in and close the gap? How could I have gone shopping for a warm uprise of love and generosity?
That doesn't even start out on my list. I tend to think I'm supposed to plan my pies without reliance on others that way. We are supposed to devise our goals, set our circles and make our hash marks, assuming we will get there without help, right? Yet in effect, if it had been up to me alone, the complete circle you see before you would look the pizza box under a college freshman's futon: couple of piddly dry slices that smell bad.
You probably think I'm suggesting a hefty helping of helpful friends. Well, sure, but local heroes were not in short supply during these hard months. Rather, what I found hardest to scrounge from the ole' spice rack:
Asking for Help (1 heaping cup, almost every day)
Accepting Help Without Feeling Like a Failure (2 heaping cups, daily, and hourly sometimes)
Doing Whatever Imperfect Version of Imagined Ideal Anyway (Keep Handy and Sprinkle As Needed.)
The surgery I mentioned above, happened to me, in the face. It helped me, but also rendered me bedfast for weeks.
My pie chart, looking more like this, watched me doze under a bag of frozen peas, and I watched it back, through a bleary Vicoden-induced haze.
This is when all the staring I had already done to it before came in handy. Thanks to all that squinting, head-tilting, and the simmering self-deluding, it didn't look unfulfilled. I could see something in it that I needed to see. What I saw in each and every filled inch of that pie, was already a result of my friends who believed there would be a complete and final product.
They delivered me to testing, work, home, and sites of observation. They rescued our pets, comforted our kids, asked if we were okay and if they could do anything. A lot. Their willingness to help and their conviction that we were worth helping, bolstered me on cold hard mornings and late dark afternoons.
My friends are mostly smart and lovely people. They could know what they are doing, believing in this pie in sky. Or, on the wall, as the case may be. When all I could do was mouth-breathe and click a mouse, that's what I did. I studied, wrote, and planned for stronger more capable days. I figured they all knew something I was still unsure about, and that they might be right.
Yesterday, I got word that I may wipe the whiteboard clean. Pre-clinical experiences have successfully been experienced, and I passed. As pie is the perfect dessert for sharing, it'd be better to say, "We passed." This is a pie I never could have made on my own. Humbly, I will wipe it away, to make room for a new realization; but not before posting a pic, sharing its secrets, and thanking those who helped make it so sweet.
Serves every 1.
