One thing that I really, really enjoy more than the average person is cooking.  It is something that I think comes naturally, when you are the oldest child of more than a few.  (Somebody has to help momma out sometimes.)  So for years (decades) now I have experimented, revived, and perfected a few dishes as well as “canned” a few (figuratively and literally.)  Some things you have to work at and this just happens to be one of those that I don’t.  After being the understudy of my mother and honing the skills of both of my grandmother’s, I feel like I could fry, boil, broil, sauté, simmer, baste, or grill anything.

The one thing that I cannot do well at all is BAKE.  I am horrible!  I believe it is because I am the kind of cook that is 'a little bit of this, taste of that'.  Very Rachel Ray-ish.  No measurements… not even after looking at the recipe.  I cook by taste and experience.  Therefore, to bake which is truly a science is very difficult for me. (Science wasn’t my strong subject while I was in school either.)  This is where Dear comes in.  He is an awesome baker!  His tasting skills are very developed as well, but he can really bake.  He is good at cakes, brownies, pies, cookies (my favs), and about anything else baked.

Being the Tuesday before the biggest eating holiday of the year, I decided to get a jump-start on my Thanksgiving dinner.  Especially since the maternal, half of my family will be gathering at our home… all 72 of them.  So me and my non-baking self started making sweet potato pies.  I made the first batch blind, without tasting any of the nine of them.  I didn’t put nearly as much sugar in them because they were for the dinner baskets that our church made for the neighboring community center to give away to those in need.

The second batch I really put my foot in!  After tasting a sliver, boy did I feel good.  My baking skills are improving!  My husband tasted it and agreed.  Three of the second set was for my mother’s friend, one for my husband to carry to work and the others for us to enjoy on Thanksgiving Day.  Now my husband being an expert on all things junk food or dessert, felt the need to keep “tasting” the pie we had cut.  After about his third taste I reminded him not to burn himself out on sweet potato pie before the holiday.  (He is known for overdoing it on the sweets.)  When I finished with my baking expedition for the evening, I cleaned the kitchen… and the “taster” pie pan, considering Dear only left 1 piece.  I wrapped that piece up carefully and washed the tin to make dinner rolls in later.  We turned out the lights and called it a night.

This morning I awakened to the sound of the “facilities” being flushed.  While still stirring in the bed and trying to clear my mind to begin my day, Dear informs me that, “The pie made me sick!”  I reminded him of all the rich factors in the recipe:  butter, sweetened condensed milk, eggs, sugar, etc.  I told him that it doesn’t surprise me.  “Everything is moderation,” is the comment I left him with for the moment.  He left the room to head to work and after about 4 minutes, he was back.  He had to visit the facilities again.  Yet one more trip later, he was finally able to venture to work.  I chuckled as he finally pulled out of the driveway with pie in tow.  He’s had a hard time over the years learning this lesson with sweets and his highly volatile stomach.

Since this is day 2 of my much-needed vacation, I went to my mom’s house to help her with her in home daycare.  Did I just say vacation?  Skip that.  Nothing about today was a vacation.  Eleven kids between the ages of months and five years old all screaming at different times for various reasons is not a vacation.  Anyway, from exchanging text messages with Dear I can tell the richness of the pie in his belly is not getting any better.  The butter, sugar, and milk are having an all out war with the walls of his stomach.  Then at about noon Dear calls my cell phone.  I missed the call, but it was rather surprising to see him calling since that rarely happens.  About an hour passes, and I get another call from our house.  It is Dear.  He is home… and very sick... calling me in desperate need of some fluids in the form of Gatorade.  I feel sorry for him, but still kind of chuckle to myself that he jumped off that bridge once more.

So I was a good wife.  I left my mom’s, stopped and got him some fluids, and hurried home to play doctor.  I walked in the bedroom to find him in a self-inflicted comforter burrito, but his feet are out.  (He’s only 6’4” and 275 pounds! Lol)  I administer my assistance where I can, try to force him to drink, and get him another comforter to throw over him.  Then he tells me his stomach hurts, his chest hurts, he is cold, he is sweaty, and he has a headache!  Just as I was starting to feel bad about the pie and remembering just how horrible I am at baking.

I told him two things… 1) “the next time you take a pie to work to promote my ‘good cooking’ don’t eat a whole one the night before.  Its bad advertising!” 2) “The last time I checked, what you’re feeling are the exact symptoms of the flu or some form of virus… not a botched pie!”

Shortly after his mother called and confirmed my diagnosis.  Need I say more…

I love you Mom, I love you Dad.