Wherein I make a blasphemous statement

 

Well, well, well, look who’s here.

I haven't seen you in many a year.

If I knew you were comin’ I’d ’ve baked a cake,

baked a cake, baked a cake.

If I knew you were comin’ I’d ’ve baked a cake.

How-ja do. How-ja do, How-ja do.

My friend Michael (who frequently comments here, and who I hadn't seen in many a year) knew I would be passing through Albuquerque, where he lives, so he emailed me:

I’ve gotten on a pie & quiche making kick and would like to gift you with one or both.

He didn’t need to bribe — a simple invitation would’ve sufficed — but free baked goods is a happy bonus. So now I have these two beauties. Michael is especially proud of the crust.

It was dinner time when I reached my day’s destination, so my meal started with the quiche. I don’t think I’ve had quiche since the 80s. (We had been told Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche, but I figured real men could eat whatever they wanted. So I defiantly ate quiche back then. Most of it was meh. And the mini-quiche hors d’oeuvres were awful.) Michael’s quiche was absolutely delicious! And, OMG! The crust!

The apple-pear pie was wonderful! My mother was a fantastic baker of pies, cakes, cookies and bread. I know it’s blasphemy to say this, but I like Michael’s pie better than Mom’s. But, you know, my tastes have changed during all the years since. Mom’s apple pie was perfect for 1-20 year old me. I mean, you couldn’t have forced me to eat quiche back then. Egg pie? Ew, gross!

So thank you, Michael, for your gracious gift and for thinking of me, even if it puts me in hot water with Mom.