Valentine’s Day was normal. I got my dark chocolate covered cognac, and he got an apple pie. With which I struggled because they really didn’t have great pie apples this time of year. And the crust was odd, requiring no addition of cold water, yet dry and crumbly so that the bottom was pieced together and the top was rolled out a couple times. According to my husband, his grandmother rolled, sprinkled it with flour and water, folded, and rolled out seven times–last night he claimed it was fourteen. Thought that when he made a pie himself ten years ago he had learned this was folly itself, and no one really, really rolls it out that many times. But calling Grandma a liar is not a nice thing to do, especially on a romantic holiday.
Thank God for all those liquor-filled chocolates yesterday. I actually had fun, and didn’t mind sweeping all the dough off the flour when I was done.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology