'The Message'
A place for Buffistas to discuss, beta and otherwise deal and dish on their non-fan fiction projects.
This isn't very good, but for some reason is what popped to mind and won't go away
What I Told Them: "I know you were looking forward to blueberry pie, but I discovered too late I didn't have enough ingredients. I hope the crumble will do."
What Really Happened:
"Pie."
"Pie!"
"Pie!!PIE!PIE!!PIEPIEPIEPIEPIEPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE!"
My toddler downed my cup of coffee before my brain could catch on. Pie for breakfast it was. Too early to be on the defensive.
sarameg, that cracked me up.
Just representing a different kind of pie...
My grandmother stands at the stove, slowly cooking the ground pork, adding a mashed potato, some onion, and the spices. She’s making tourtiere, French Canadian pork pie. The recipe she gave me calls for half-teaspoons of cinnamon and cloves, but that’s not nearly enough to get the flavor right. While it’s cooking, she makes the pie crust. After seventy years of baking, she’s got the touch, even though she can’t see well enough to read the recipe any more, and the crust is always perfect. Dinner is the tourtiere with ketchup, a salad, a cup of coffee for my Memere.
Kristin, there's no "getting back in the game"; you never left it. This has been a fun topic to drabble and to follow along with others.
I think I have an idea for this one finally. Pie and coffee conjures Twin Peaks for me too, and it's hard to get off the brain.
Love everyone's so far!
I warned you, I had a thing for serial killers today.
Getting the Axe*
All I could think as Tom’s headless body came flying out the pot was, “Damn, this fucker just won’t die.” I’d cut off his head, hung him by his heels and left him to bleed out. So I thought. Instead, there I was, chasing him around the kitchen, desperate to catch him. He belonged in that pan so I could roast him to a crispy delight. Not only that, but his half-plucked feathers had scattered all over the kitchen, knocking over my coffee and landing in the bowl of sliced apples. So much for my Thanksgiving ritual sacrifice, with pie.
The couple talked over the latest movie they’d seen as Claire dished up the pie and ice cream. “It was a fine movie,” the husband said, “but I didn’t believe the ending.” George was a writer and tended to pause as if waiting for his audience to catch up.
“Really? Of course with a lead like Helen Mirren, what’s not to believe?” Claire tended to take her beloved’s tangents with a few grains of salt to keep peace in the house. She just didn’t feel anything as seriously as he seemed to, anyway.
“Well, women don’t have that kind of killer instinct.”
”Well, okay, maybe not with a golf club. But there are plenty of...homely ways to do someone in.”
She says this lightly, but is hurt when he declines another slice of pie.
ooo, erika. I'd change one word. Hurt to disappointed in the last line--it's more telling.
Or am I reading something in you didn't intend? Again?
If you are, then I am, too, Bev. I'm surprised at how many of these drabbles have taken a dark turn. I'm enjoying the heck out of them.