Testing

Earlier this week, my husband turned to me and said, "you know what I miss about living by your parents?"

A million things went through my mind. None of those included his answer.

"All the pumpkin pies she would make leading up and into Thanksgiving. I love pumpkin pie."

I took the hint.

It is true, my family (on my mother's side) makes an obscene (and I mean obscene) number of pies for the upcoming holiday.

I know a lot of people say they make a lot of pies, but their paltry numbers make me laugh. Quite literally they make more than a pie per person ... and I don't believe they're counting the sheer number of pumpkin pies consumed in the week leading up to Thanksgiving.

We really, really like our pie in the Packard family.

So I set to making the perfect pumpkin pie.

I don't make it from scratch. I go with Libby's, because it's that good.

I do, however, make my crust from scratch. I feel jilted and cheated when there is a store-bought crust anywhere in a pie equation.

And for those who say it isn't worth it because crust really isn't that good, for you I say this: You just aren't making the right crust.

That's right. You heard me. You have an inferior crust recipe.

I'm not even going to tell you where you can find the perfect crust recipe. I'm a broken record on the subject -- you know where to go.

Even my husband, who doesn't ever eat the back or fluted portion of his crust hails this crust as absolute perfection.

So a pie was made:

Who cares if it took half the day (make the dough; refrigerate the pie dough for 1 hour; put in pan; freeze that for 30 minutes; put in filling; bake for an hour; cool for 2 hours)?

We found out Elliot is something of a pumpkin pie pig. It was shocking how much he ate.

Speaking of Elliot, Lane's been blaming me all week for his missing shoes.

He dumps them at the door when he comes home and typically I put them back in our closet.

Seeing as there have been none for awhile, I assumed he had finally learned I don't like shoes by the door.

But then I started getting blamed for missing shoes.

Yesterday, as we were headed out the door, Lane turns to me in frustration (in front of the kids) and asks me where his shoes were that he took off 30 minutes previously.

Elliot looks up at us and says, "Daddy shoes?"

He then proceeds to walk over to our seldom-used buffet in the front entry (in it I store surplus craft items rarely used).

He opened the doors and said, "what Daddy shoes?"

He handed Lane the requested pair and the remaining have stayed put.

Apparently Elliot shares my dislike for shoes left at the door.