Worst. Wife. Ever.

So for Thanksgiving I tootled of to south Texas, leaving T behind secure in the knowledge that come Turkey Day, he would be celebrating with fellow law enforcement officer Auntie M, who also got the shaft had to work on Thanksgiving. Well, long story short, Auntie M had a change of plans that made it impossible for her to do turkey dinner with T. So as I was sitting down to delicious desserts with family and friends, he was headed home to have his solitary Thanksgiving, er, burrito.

Oh, the guilt! I had intended to buy him an old fashioned turkey T.V. dinner with all the sides carefully segregated as kind of a joke, but I managed to drop even that pathetic ball. (I didn't do the laundry before I left, either. There. My list of wifely sins is complete.)

For his part, T was remarkably cheerful in the face of both working and not getting to gorge on gourmet goodies on Thanksgiving. He did, however, request that I make him a pie upon my return. "No problem!" I said, and set to work as soon as I got back to Small Town.

I may have mentioned it a time or two, but I am not a domestic diva. I am the kind of homemaker that lets eggs spoil in the refrigerator. So lately I have been purchasing Eggbeaters (egg substitute) instead. But I even managed to let homogenized egg-like liquid spoil in the fridge, so the last time I bought some I carefully froze it into cubes. By my measurement, three cubes should have been the equivalent on one egg.

So I whipped up a pecan pie right quick, using nine egg cubes in place of the three eggs the recipe calls for. Everything looked fine, so I put the pie in the oven and never gave it another thought until the timer went off an hour later. Imagine my surprise to find all of my carefully arranged pecans standing up on edge a la Jiffy Pop because the custard portion of the pie had expanded like a souffle? The custard was a pale yellow color instead of the more standard caramel-y color pecan pies usually are, so I put it back in the oven for 10 more minutes. When I took it out, the custard/souffle started to compress, so I just nudged the pecans back into position and hoped for the best.

Fast forward to dessert time: I cut into the pie... and the custard is runny. Blarg! So I decide to cook it for a little longer. And a little longer. And a little longer. Finally, after 30 more minutes, I was afraid that I had created a confection capable of pulling teeth, so I took it out. The custard was still light, but seemed a bit more normal.

The pie's innards, while tasty, were still pretty runny and slightly oily. The pecans around the edge were bordering on burned and would yank your crowns if you weren't careful. You would never know that I had pulled off an entire Thanksgiving meal just days previously. Of course, my dad made the pecan pie.

T said it was the thought that counts - through teeth glued together by overcooked Karo. Sigh.

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