The Musings of the Absolutely Fabulous Ms. N.

That evening I poured through a dozen cookbooks looking for a pumpkin pie recipe. I struck gold when I found one in a Betty Crocker cookbook. Wiping the sweat off of my brow I sat down and glanced over the ingredients: Nutmeg, sweetened condensed milk, pumpkin pie filling. “I don’t have any of that stuff in my apartment” I said to my cat Leo. He looked at me with his usual distaste. I swore I heard him say, “Did you honestly think you could make a pumpkin pie?” I scowled at him as I made a list of everything that I needed. I then grabbed my car keys and headed for the grocery store.

I found everything quickly except for the sweetened condensed milk. I looked all over for that darn can. It was the day before Thanksgiving and the store was hectic. I cursed the other shoppers who wait till the last minute to but their Thanksgiving groceries. Up and down aisles. Dodging carts. I cursed my aunt for planting the thought in my head that I would bake instead of buy a pie. “Where the heck is the sweetened condescend milk?” I mutter like a loony through the store. I made my way over to the baking aisle looking for it. I was about to give up but the desire to not be a victim to the evil games that the grocery store clerks were playing by hiding the sweetened condensed milk. I broke my cardinal rule in desperation: Don’t talk to strangers at the store. But I was distressed so I asked an older woman if she had seen the sweetened condescend milk.
She looked at me with a puzzled look on her face. “No” she answers.
“Thanks” I replied when I really wanted to say, “AARRGGHH”.
I turn my cart and proceed to walk out of the aisle when I hear “Oh, Here it is”.
I turn my head and I see the woman holding a can of sweetened condescend milk. “Hallelujah” I cry. I grab two cans shoot her a “Thank you” and wheel my way to the register.

After standing in line for what seemed like an eternity, I got back to my apartment and put all the ingredients on my kitchen counter. I had all of my bases covered. I bought two of everything so in case I messed up on one of the pies I could make a backup. Everything was going smoothly. I read the directions and found that it was indeed easy to make a pumpkin pie. I stuck both in the oven and started to clean up the mess that was now consuming my kitchen. Then I noticed it with the corner of my eye. The nutmeg I had grated with my microplain sitting in a measuring cup. “Son of a bitch” I muttered. I forgot to add the damn nutmeg! What was I going to do now? “Ah ha”! I thought, I would add it to the top of the pies. It would give it a “sprinkled” effect. Except this is what really happened when I opened up the oven. I took a pinch of the nutmeg and instead of it spreading evenly around the pie it landed in a plop where I dropped it. So I tried again. And again. My pies looked like they had an outbreak of nutmeg acne. “Shit!” I said to myself. It was too late. The pies were in the oven and almost done. I sent a quick prayer to my goddess Martha Stewart that the pies would turn out okay. At least my apartment smelled like a Yankee Candle. After the pies were baked I cooled them and stuck them in the freezer. Hopefully they would pass the family taste test nutmeg acne and all.