Ephiphany at the Park
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2009
I left church, and walked the 1-1/2 blocks to my sister's house. No one was home. I wasn't surprised. Why should I be? People with money don't just sit at home--well not all of them anyway. For some reason, I felt so bereft. I didn't want to be alone. But everybody else was doing their thing, and for the first time in ages, I wished I owned a vehicle. But--if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, right?
I walked another couple of blocks to the park, and sat down at a picnic table. The sun had been out just moments ago, and now it was clouding over again. The wind was blowing harder now, and I shivered. And this sad feeling lingered. Good grief! I told myself. Get hold of yourself! You don't have the time and energy to spend on a pity party for one! I sat, watching some teenagers, strolling through the park, dressed in bicycle shorts and hoodies. Brrr! Getting older.
After they had gone on, I gazed up at the steely gray sky, with the ominous silvery clouds. "Why, God?" I asked softly. "Why am I here? What did I do wrong?" No answer. "Oh, Lord, I would give anything if I could just turn back the clock, back to last year. I was taking care of my mother, and You just don't know how much I miss her, those blasted cats, especially my Baby Serena, and that old run-down house. I should've bought it when I had the chance. I shouldn't have listened to anyone, and I didn't trust you. Now I'm in the pit, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to dig myself out of it!"
That's the problem. You were so busy listening to everyone's advice, everyone's opinion, taking them to heart. You didn't believe and trust me. Yes, you asked Me about what to do, but then you never gave Me a chance to answer you. You went on your own merry way, and now you're hurting. I'm so sorry, child! Now trust Me fully. Stop listening to all these pieces of advice and every opinion. When you come to me in faith, believing that I know best, your life will be better."
Oh, God, forgive my unbelief! Show me what to do, and in the meantime, let me do what I'm supposed to be doing until you call my name.
Go back home, child. Think about Me, and believe. Believe.
I dried my eyes and made the short trip home.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Rescued!!!
Rescued!!!
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2009
I had finished my job for a client, and declined a ride. It was a beautiful day--almost too gorgeous for Western Nebraska this time of year, and I had this need to walk. I had errands to run, and thought the exercise would do me good.
I made my rounds, stopping in to visit with the girls at the shop (beauty salon), then walked around the corner to the post office. That's the really great thing about living in a small town. You're pretty much within walking distance of whatever you're looking for. Unfortunately, I was suddenly faced with a dilemma.
Dick, the postmaster, handed me a rather large box of books I'd ordered about 3 weeks before. I groaned. "Weren't expecting 'em today, huh?" he teased.
"Well, I'll get 'em home somehow!" I said. I went out into the lobby and proceeded to tear open the box. I had brought along a bag, which contained the book I'm currently reading, my reading glasses and 2 bottles of water. (I've given up my "pop" habit.) I figured I could just stuff the books into the bag and I'd manage that way.
I got the box opened, pulled the contents out of my bag and was about to start cramming 5 extra books into the bag, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Need a ride?" I turned to see my friend, Helen, smiling at me.
"How did you know?" I teased.
"Me?" Helen exclaimed. "How did you know?" Of course, neither of us knew that the other would be at the post office at the same time--cool!
I took Helen up on her offer of a ride--sat in the back seat, which felt much safer. I shouldn't complain. Forgive me. Helen has been more than a good friend--she's been like my guardian angel, and she rescued me that day!
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2009
I had finished my job for a client, and declined a ride. It was a beautiful day--almost too gorgeous for Western Nebraska this time of year, and I had this need to walk. I had errands to run, and thought the exercise would do me good.
I made my rounds, stopping in to visit with the girls at the shop (beauty salon), then walked around the corner to the post office. That's the really great thing about living in a small town. You're pretty much within walking distance of whatever you're looking for. Unfortunately, I was suddenly faced with a dilemma.
Dick, the postmaster, handed me a rather large box of books I'd ordered about 3 weeks before. I groaned. "Weren't expecting 'em today, huh?" he teased.
"Well, I'll get 'em home somehow!" I said. I went out into the lobby and proceeded to tear open the box. I had brought along a bag, which contained the book I'm currently reading, my reading glasses and 2 bottles of water. (I've given up my "pop" habit.) I figured I could just stuff the books into the bag and I'd manage that way.
I got the box opened, pulled the contents out of my bag and was about to start cramming 5 extra books into the bag, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Need a ride?" I turned to see my friend, Helen, smiling at me.
"How did you know?" I teased.
"Me?" Helen exclaimed. "How did you know?" Of course, neither of us knew that the other would be at the post office at the same time--cool!
I took Helen up on her offer of a ride--sat in the back seat, which felt much safer. I shouldn't complain. Forgive me. Helen has been more than a good friend--she's been like my guardian angel, and she rescued me that day!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Angel On My Shoulder
Angel On My Shoulder
By: Linda DePeel (c.) 2009
My friend, Helen is 92 years young, and is still very active. She's one of the more fortunate people--her mind is still sharp, she has a 3-wheel "bike" that she rides in nice weather, and is always willing to help anyone in need. She took me in after I moved back to Western Nebraska, after staying with my ex-in-laws in Northeastern Nebraska. And whenever she gives me advice, I always listen, because it's sound, godly wisdom. However, there's just one little problem....
Helen still drives. Not bad for someone her age, but she's not a good driver, which she herself will admit. Last week, we were headed to Bible Study, and she never saw the big red truck coming. She got to the intersection before I could react. I yelled, "Stop!" and she slammed on the brakes. Luckily the truck managed to steer around us, but not before shaking his fist at her. My poor ol' heart was thudding wildly in my chest, and no doubt, Helen's was too. I forced myself to breathe deeply.
Helen said, "Oh, dear! Thanks for warning me." Just like that! She "burned rubber", as the saying goes, and I thought, "Good grief! This is all the reaction she's got? I mean, like, that would've been my side that would have taken the impact, and, Lord, I'm still too young to die, and I really don't want to wind up in a body cast either!" A little angel had to be sitting on my shoulder that day, and I'm very grateful! Thank you.
By: Linda DePeel (c.) 2009
My friend, Helen is 92 years young, and is still very active. She's one of the more fortunate people--her mind is still sharp, she has a 3-wheel "bike" that she rides in nice weather, and is always willing to help anyone in need. She took me in after I moved back to Western Nebraska, after staying with my ex-in-laws in Northeastern Nebraska. And whenever she gives me advice, I always listen, because it's sound, godly wisdom. However, there's just one little problem....
Helen still drives. Not bad for someone her age, but she's not a good driver, which she herself will admit. Last week, we were headed to Bible Study, and she never saw the big red truck coming. She got to the intersection before I could react. I yelled, "Stop!" and she slammed on the brakes. Luckily the truck managed to steer around us, but not before shaking his fist at her. My poor ol' heart was thudding wildly in my chest, and no doubt, Helen's was too. I forced myself to breathe deeply.
Helen said, "Oh, dear! Thanks for warning me." Just like that! She "burned rubber", as the saying goes, and I thought, "Good grief! This is all the reaction she's got? I mean, like, that would've been my side that would have taken the impact, and, Lord, I'm still too young to die, and I really don't want to wind up in a body cast either!" A little angel had to be sitting on my shoulder that day, and I'm very grateful! Thank you.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Pancake Puddin'
Pancake Puddin'
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2008
I have never been overly fond of eggs. My mother told me that she fed me so much egg yolk when I was a baby, that I must have "foundered" on it (my mother's terminology for being turned off to certain foods). So, most of my life, I've avoided eating eggs. And of course, there's my son, Mark with his "scrambled microwave eggs"--shudder!
My husband and I went to a nice restaurant in Omaha, and he insisted on ordering for me. So he ordered Eggs Benedict. I was too shy to speak up, so I didn't protest. I mean, one does not go to a fancy restaurant and say, "Eeeww! I don't like that!" But I resented it, lemme tell ya!
The waitress, a pretty, petite dark haired girl, with huge doe eyes brought our meal. My husband had steak and eggs and Mike had a kids meal of burger and fries. She set my plate in front of me, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. My husband paid no attention, and attacked his steak like a ravenous dog. But apparently the woman noticed my apprehension. In a kind soft voice, she asked, "Is everything all right, ma'am?"
"I'm sorry," I said, staring down at my plate, "I can't eat these eggs." To me they looked like two huge yellow eyes staring at me. And I, being the bright and mature woman that I was, found myself glaring back at those eggs, actually wanting to give them a black eye!
The perky waitress said in her same soft voice, "I understand. Would you like something else?" My husband's steak knife clattered to the table, and maybe I was imagining it, being embarrassed and all, but it sounded loud, and I dropped my head, because I knew people were staring--even though there weren't many people near our table.
"For crying out loud!" my husband snapped. "What is it with you and eggs?" I had no voice, but I wanted to say, "Next time, let me order my own meal, Dear. And stop making a scene!"
I guess the waitress sensed the tension and said, "How about if I take this back and bring you scrambled eggs?" I told her I thought maybe I could handle that, and after she removed my plate, my husband said, "We're going to be laughed out of this place, because of you and your egg phobia."
My baby son was better behaved than my husband, who went back to chowing down. Soon the waitress brought a new plate, and I thanked her. Then, hesitantly, I tried the "Scrambled Eggs Benedict". It was actually pretty tasty, even though my husband glared at me the whole time.
Our "tiff" was soon forgotten, and we went to the restaurant many times after that. And I did eat Eggs Benedict several times, but always scrambled!
Today, I guess I'm older and my tastes have changed a bit, so I do eat more eggs. In fact, I get to craving hard-boiled eggs now and again. I prefer omelets or scrambled eggs on top of pancakes. My grandma used to fix pancakes and plop scrambled eggs on top, with butter and syrup for me. She called it "Pancake Puddin'", and accomplished what my mother couldn't. Just don't fix me fried or poached eggs unless, of course, you want to see a real Stare Down!
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2008
I have never been overly fond of eggs. My mother told me that she fed me so much egg yolk when I was a baby, that I must have "foundered" on it (my mother's terminology for being turned off to certain foods). So, most of my life, I've avoided eating eggs. And of course, there's my son, Mark with his "scrambled microwave eggs"--shudder!
My husband and I went to a nice restaurant in Omaha, and he insisted on ordering for me. So he ordered Eggs Benedict. I was too shy to speak up, so I didn't protest. I mean, one does not go to a fancy restaurant and say, "Eeeww! I don't like that!" But I resented it, lemme tell ya!
The waitress, a pretty, petite dark haired girl, with huge doe eyes brought our meal. My husband had steak and eggs and Mike had a kids meal of burger and fries. She set my plate in front of me, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. My husband paid no attention, and attacked his steak like a ravenous dog. But apparently the woman noticed my apprehension. In a kind soft voice, she asked, "Is everything all right, ma'am?"
"I'm sorry," I said, staring down at my plate, "I can't eat these eggs." To me they looked like two huge yellow eyes staring at me. And I, being the bright and mature woman that I was, found myself glaring back at those eggs, actually wanting to give them a black eye!
The perky waitress said in her same soft voice, "I understand. Would you like something else?" My husband's steak knife clattered to the table, and maybe I was imagining it, being embarrassed and all, but it sounded loud, and I dropped my head, because I knew people were staring--even though there weren't many people near our table.
"For crying out loud!" my husband snapped. "What is it with you and eggs?" I had no voice, but I wanted to say, "Next time, let me order my own meal, Dear. And stop making a scene!"
I guess the waitress sensed the tension and said, "How about if I take this back and bring you scrambled eggs?" I told her I thought maybe I could handle that, and after she removed my plate, my husband said, "We're going to be laughed out of this place, because of you and your egg phobia."
My baby son was better behaved than my husband, who went back to chowing down. Soon the waitress brought a new plate, and I thanked her. Then, hesitantly, I tried the "Scrambled Eggs Benedict". It was actually pretty tasty, even though my husband glared at me the whole time.
Our "tiff" was soon forgotten, and we went to the restaurant many times after that. And I did eat Eggs Benedict several times, but always scrambled!
Today, I guess I'm older and my tastes have changed a bit, so I do eat more eggs. In fact, I get to craving hard-boiled eggs now and again. I prefer omelets or scrambled eggs on top of pancakes. My grandma used to fix pancakes and plop scrambled eggs on top, with butter and syrup for me. She called it "Pancake Puddin'", and accomplished what my mother couldn't. Just don't fix me fried or poached eggs unless, of course, you want to see a real Stare Down!
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Breakfast With Mark
Breakfast With Mark
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2008
I had taught my kids how to fix their own breakfasts when they were quite young. That way, if I came home tired from working all night and the sitter hadn't given them anything to eat, they could fix it themselves. They weren't allowed to use the stove or oven, but they could make toast like pros, and six-year old Mark loved scrambled eggs cooked in the microwave.
One night I called in to work, as I had a bad case of the Twenty-four Hour Flu. I was violently ill all night long. Finally, at about four a.m. the crisis passed and I fell into an exhausted sleep on the sofa in the living room. I was wide awake about two hours later--and violently ill again.
Mike had opted for toasted peanut butter sandwiches, but Mark wanted his usual scrambled eggs. Ugh! I have never been an egg fan, and to me, scrambled eggs cooking in a microwave is absolutely revolting. It just has this--rotten odor and this odor seems to permeate an entire house!
"Mark!" I could barely croak. "Not--" I couldn't finish my sentence, as a huge wave of nausea washed over me.
"They're good, Neenz!" Mark beamed at me, his huge dimples showing. "You want to try some? Maybe they would make you all better!" He started coming into the living room (we lived in a trailer), and I held up a hand. "No, no!" I cried. "Not right now, sweetheart! I'm going to lie back down again. Ooooohhhhh!" "Okay," he said, and started scarfing them down.
Twenty years later, and he still likes his scrambled eggs in the microwave. I visited him in Omaha last summer, and he proudly showed me his brand new microwave. "It even speaks Spanish!" he announced proudly. "That's why I bought it!"
"Why didn't you just take Spanish in high school when you had the chance?" I shook my head. He speaks French, German and Greek fluently, but took those courses in college.
"Well, I didn't like the teacher," he replied. "And besides, the Spanish they teach isn't the kind of Spanish spoken in the US."
"Mark, sometimes I wonder about you," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." He still has those big dimples. "But, hey! Guess what I'm fixing you for breakfast in the morning?" My stomach began to churn. I knew it was going to be scrambled eggs in the microwave--excuse me--wavels. I managed to talk him out of it.
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2008
I had taught my kids how to fix their own breakfasts when they were quite young. That way, if I came home tired from working all night and the sitter hadn't given them anything to eat, they could fix it themselves. They weren't allowed to use the stove or oven, but they could make toast like pros, and six-year old Mark loved scrambled eggs cooked in the microwave.
One night I called in to work, as I had a bad case of the Twenty-four Hour Flu. I was violently ill all night long. Finally, at about four a.m. the crisis passed and I fell into an exhausted sleep on the sofa in the living room. I was wide awake about two hours later--and violently ill again.
Mike had opted for toasted peanut butter sandwiches, but Mark wanted his usual scrambled eggs. Ugh! I have never been an egg fan, and to me, scrambled eggs cooking in a microwave is absolutely revolting. It just has this--rotten odor and this odor seems to permeate an entire house!
"Mark!" I could barely croak. "Not--" I couldn't finish my sentence, as a huge wave of nausea washed over me.
"They're good, Neenz!" Mark beamed at me, his huge dimples showing. "You want to try some? Maybe they would make you all better!" He started coming into the living room (we lived in a trailer), and I held up a hand. "No, no!" I cried. "Not right now, sweetheart! I'm going to lie back down again. Ooooohhhhh!" "Okay," he said, and started scarfing them down.
Twenty years later, and he still likes his scrambled eggs in the microwave. I visited him in Omaha last summer, and he proudly showed me his brand new microwave. "It even speaks Spanish!" he announced proudly. "That's why I bought it!"
"Why didn't you just take Spanish in high school when you had the chance?" I shook my head. He speaks French, German and Greek fluently, but took those courses in college.
"Well, I didn't like the teacher," he replied. "And besides, the Spanish they teach isn't the kind of Spanish spoken in the US."
"Mark, sometimes I wonder about you," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." He still has those big dimples. "But, hey! Guess what I'm fixing you for breakfast in the morning?" My stomach began to churn. I knew it was going to be scrambled eggs in the microwave--excuse me--wavels. I managed to talk him out of it.
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Best and The Worst Ever
The Best and the Worst Ever
By: Linda De Peel (c.)2008
When my husband and I were first married, we didn't have a lot of money. We scrimped and scraped and barely made ends meet. Even after my husband landed a job as a computer programmer/analyst we still had to watch our spending. That meant my husband didn't run across the street to Macky D's or the Gin Mill for lunch or dinner. He Brown Bagged it. I always tried to send sensible and nutritious lunches for him; he was 6'1" and only weighed 125 pounds. I would come up with interesting things, like my "ship-wreck stew", which he referred to as "second-time around stew", peanut butter and radish sandwiches (he actually enjoyed that).
One day he wanted a jello salad, but not just the plain old boring jello with fruit cocktail. He wanted "Pizzazz". No problem! Of course, all I had was jello and fruit cocktail, but I also had Cool Whip on hand. So I got busy, and mixed it all together. But after looking at it for a few minutes, I decided that it needed some more pizzazz. I looked in the pantry for food coloring, but all I had was blue. So I added it in, and I thought it didn't look too bad. I knew I could depend on my husband to comment on it. "Oh, this is like Mom always made!" Or: "Ugh! I wouldn't feed that to a stray dog!" I sent him off to work (he was working 2 pm-10pm for awhile).
He came home around 10:30 and said, "Honey, that Jello salad was wonderful--best I've ever eaten!"
"Really?" I said. "Well, I'll make more!"
"No, please don't!" Now he's messing with my head! Sometimes I could get into the Head Games, but sometimes not. Tonight was not the night for it.
"So, if it's so wonderful, why don't you want me to make more?" I demanded, feeling quite grumpy. "Just say what you mean!"
"Well--um--the Jello was good--real good. But there was a problem." He stared down at the floor, and I knew he was holding out on me. My voice cracked on him like a whip.
"What was wrong with the jello salad?"
"Well, um, people in the office said it looked really awful, and some of them thought I was eating spoiled food."
"What?" I screeched. "I would never--"
He held up a hand to call a truce. "Honey, believe me, it was really good, but the blue food coloring made it look like there was this huge layer of mold all over it. And, I, um, well-- I had to close my eyes to eat it, because it wasn't really appetizing to look at."
I felt all of three inches tall. I went out and looked at it again. It really did look bad. You see, I'd used grape-flavored jello, and apparently that made it worse.
So, anyone want to hire a cook?
By: Linda De Peel (c.)2008
When my husband and I were first married, we didn't have a lot of money. We scrimped and scraped and barely made ends meet. Even after my husband landed a job as a computer programmer/analyst we still had to watch our spending. That meant my husband didn't run across the street to Macky D's or the Gin Mill for lunch or dinner. He Brown Bagged it. I always tried to send sensible and nutritious lunches for him; he was 6'1" and only weighed 125 pounds. I would come up with interesting things, like my "ship-wreck stew", which he referred to as "second-time around stew", peanut butter and radish sandwiches (he actually enjoyed that).
One day he wanted a jello salad, but not just the plain old boring jello with fruit cocktail. He wanted "Pizzazz". No problem! Of course, all I had was jello and fruit cocktail, but I also had Cool Whip on hand. So I got busy, and mixed it all together. But after looking at it for a few minutes, I decided that it needed some more pizzazz. I looked in the pantry for food coloring, but all I had was blue. So I added it in, and I thought it didn't look too bad. I knew I could depend on my husband to comment on it. "Oh, this is like Mom always made!" Or: "Ugh! I wouldn't feed that to a stray dog!" I sent him off to work (he was working 2 pm-10pm for awhile).
He came home around 10:30 and said, "Honey, that Jello salad was wonderful--best I've ever eaten!"
"Really?" I said. "Well, I'll make more!"
"No, please don't!" Now he's messing with my head! Sometimes I could get into the Head Games, but sometimes not. Tonight was not the night for it.
"So, if it's so wonderful, why don't you want me to make more?" I demanded, feeling quite grumpy. "Just say what you mean!"
"Well--um--the Jello was good--real good. But there was a problem." He stared down at the floor, and I knew he was holding out on me. My voice cracked on him like a whip.
"What was wrong with the jello salad?"
"Well, um, people in the office said it looked really awful, and some of them thought I was eating spoiled food."
"What?" I screeched. "I would never--"
He held up a hand to call a truce. "Honey, believe me, it was really good, but the blue food coloring made it look like there was this huge layer of mold all over it. And, I, um, well-- I had to close my eyes to eat it, because it wasn't really appetizing to look at."
I felt all of three inches tall. I went out and looked at it again. It really did look bad. You see, I'd used grape-flavored jello, and apparently that made it worse.
So, anyone want to hire a cook?
Wha' Happened?
Wha' Happened?
By: Linda DePeel (c)2008
This was back in 1983. Mark was a year old and Mike was 4. My husband loved lemon meringue pie, and I'd never made one before, and was just a bit apprehensive. But he whined and complained that all I ever made was cherry and apple and (my favorite) peach! So, like a dutiful wife, I caved.
I made my crust, added the filling, then sweat, swore and swore some more as I made the meringue. I prayed hard and put it in the oven to bake, keeping the boys out of Harm's Way. I worried and fretted and stewed. What if something went wrong? I'd never hear the end of it, and I often accused my husband of being a fish wife in another life.
Timer went off and I flew into the kitchen, still praying. I carefully removed the pie from the oven, treating it as if it were pot of nitroglycerine, and set it on the counter to cool. It looked fine, but how would it taste. That would be the ultimate test. Well, nothing to do now but turn off the oven and wait for my husband to get home.
I had made a roast, complete with potatoes, vegetable, fruit, and of course, lemon meringue pie. My husband beamed. "I can't wait to taste it," he said. Then, before we knew what was ha ppening, Mike climbed up onto the stool and onto the counter. "I want to seeeeeeeee, Mum!" he said.
"Michael Allen, no!" my husband cried, but it was too late. The pie went sailing to the floor, and I could have fallen down in a heap to weep. All my hard work, all the anxiety--gone in one fell swoop! My husband picked up the pie. "Uh--dear," he said, clearing his throat. "It-it seems to be okay. There's not even a dent in it!" Huh? How was that possible? It should have been scrambled! I had been standing there, with my head in my hands, and I peeked between my fingers. Sure enough, he was right! I looked at the floor. Nothing. What in the world was going on here? My husband shrugged. "Well, uh, I guess we'll, uh, see how it tastes." I thought Well, don't sound too enthusiastic about it.
Little was said during the meal and after what seemed an eternity, it was Pie Time. I handed my husband the knife. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought maybe we'd need a chain saw. But, no problemo! And it was "delish"! I kept saying, "Wha' happened?" I guess it didn't matter. My husband loved it and asked me to make another. My response: "Nope. I'll let you do it!"
By: Linda DePeel (c)2008
This was back in 1983. Mark was a year old and Mike was 4. My husband loved lemon meringue pie, and I'd never made one before, and was just a bit apprehensive. But he whined and complained that all I ever made was cherry and apple and (my favorite) peach! So, like a dutiful wife, I caved.
I made my crust, added the filling, then sweat, swore and swore some more as I made the meringue. I prayed hard and put it in the oven to bake, keeping the boys out of Harm's Way. I worried and fretted and stewed. What if something went wrong? I'd never hear the end of it, and I often accused my husband of being a fish wife in another life.
Timer went off and I flew into the kitchen, still praying. I carefully removed the pie from the oven, treating it as if it were pot of nitroglycerine, and set it on the counter to cool. It looked fine, but how would it taste. That would be the ultimate test. Well, nothing to do now but turn off the oven and wait for my husband to get home.
I had made a roast, complete with potatoes, vegetable, fruit, and of course, lemon meringue pie. My husband beamed. "I can't wait to taste it," he said. Then, before we knew what was ha ppening, Mike climbed up onto the stool and onto the counter. "I want to seeeeeeeee, Mum!" he said.
"Michael Allen, no!" my husband cried, but it was too late. The pie went sailing to the floor, and I could have fallen down in a heap to weep. All my hard work, all the anxiety--gone in one fell swoop! My husband picked up the pie. "Uh--dear," he said, clearing his throat. "It-it seems to be okay. There's not even a dent in it!" Huh? How was that possible? It should have been scrambled! I had been standing there, with my head in my hands, and I peeked between my fingers. Sure enough, he was right! I looked at the floor. Nothing. What in the world was going on here? My husband shrugged. "Well, uh, I guess we'll, uh, see how it tastes." I thought Well, don't sound too enthusiastic about it.
Little was said during the meal and after what seemed an eternity, it was Pie Time. I handed my husband the knife. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought maybe we'd need a chain saw. But, no problemo! And it was "delish"! I kept saying, "Wha' happened?" I guess it didn't matter. My husband loved it and asked me to make another. My response: "Nope. I'll let you do it!"
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