Mama’s Little Id

Not-Cheese-Pie

A week of rain always makes me feel terribly guilty about my lack of creativity regarding indoor toddler-appropriate activities. So when Billy the Kid announced he wanted “cheese pie” while watching an episode of Angelina Ballerina (all characters are mice – I know the American Cheese Council has a hand in this), I jumped at the chance to make what he wanted for dinner with him. In my book, “cheese pie” means someone’s selling quiche to a small child. I’d never actually made one but only because I always forget about them as a dinner option. My mother’s sister, the unparalleled Mrs. V.P, makes a quiche that hints there just might be a heaven after all, and when she hosts a lunch, I find that I’m glad I don’t generally seek it out elsewhere, because I don’t think any other could compare. I found a straight-forward enough undertaking on none other than Simply Recipes, so I strapped everyone into their respective car seats, then at the market, their respective cart seats.

Since “cheese pie” would somehow have to encompass dinner, I selected a quiche that called for a variety of BK-approved ingredients, like bacon and chopped sautéed mushrooms that I added to the recipe (I’ll admit, though, they can be a wild card). Even forgoing the classy but pungent gruyère for a foolproof cheddar, I have no idea what possessed me to assume I could get away with a sprinkling of green herb, and sure enough, although he prepared it with me and witnessed every single item’s incorporation, BK stared with perplexed fury at his slice of not-cheese-pie he found at the dinner table.

After explaining, bargaining, guilting and sighing passive-aggressively, I pulled out all of the foreign bodies from the top half of BK’s slice, so that he could have exactly what his ballerina mouse friend had eaten for lunch. The clash of wills anticlimactically resolved, my charming but belligerent heir immediately switched tactics to absolute refusal to eat. Cue bed-time call, tantrum, wails, pleas, demands, and, finally, my put-this-day-in-the-ground nightcap.

Once I got around to eating my first slice of the since chilled product this afternoon, my lingering resentment disappeared, and I’m pleased to report quiche just acquired a bi-weekly menu slot. Cheese pie, my britches.

My absence explained, without more detail than becomes a lady.

I should explain the reason for my spike in snarkiness, evinced by my most recent post. My lovely twin angels are still trying to kill me, seven months after I so graciously authorized their extraction. A two-week wait for a follow-up appointment to review abdominal CT scan results has introduced me to the limits of my can-do attitude and sanity. Thank you, WebMD, for my new-found assumption that I’m harboring some sort of lump, cyst, or physical deformity. Thank you, Surgeon Apparently-Has-a-Nanny, for the direction to lift nothing over fifteen pounds.

Mr. P and the wards three are lucky to get a slab of American cheese and a couple of grapes come dinner time these days, so I have nothing to share, especially because I refuse to expand on the events occurring within my shell of a midsection at present. But have faith, gentle readers, I shall culinarily innovate once again, as soon as I can face consuming anything other than Bombay Sapphire and Doritos (I’m all for intermingling of the classes).

I’d like to take this opportunity to hear from my readers (primarily Mr. and Mrs. S; The Hamiltons, and the Sisters Christensen) on some of their favorite signature dishes. And Jess D, feel free to share that ungodly good quesadilla pie recipe, you know, the one that still haunts my better dreams.