Me: YOU'VE NEVER HAD LEMON MERINGUE PIE! That's gotta be among the rung of top pies - if that even makes sense! (it didn't) You know what I'm gonna do?
Waitress: What?
Me: I'm gonna bake you a lemon meringue pie. Probably the best lemon meringue pie . . . EVER!
Waitress: Haha, okay.
*Two weeks later.*
Me: I made your pie last night.
Waitress: Oh yeah?
Me: Yeah, but . . . it didn't turn out. BUT I'M GONNA TRY AGAIN TONIGHT! HONEST! You'll have it tomorrow! Fr realzies.
And I did try again. I made so sure I wouldn't botch this pie like my sister botched my hair cut that I went as far as to watch an entire cooking show episode devoted to pie baking, namely, lemon merignue, with who other than, Alton Brown. I know, right? Scientific food cooking genius. I was taught everything about pie anatomy, what chemical reactions took place. I'd be ready for it this time - whatever IT was. But, Alton wasn't telling me something; what it was, I'll never know, because I'll never use this recipe again. EVER! I should have listened to my mother, I should have gotten instant meringue. But who are we kidding? Kuuku da. There's no room for imitation, no. Never. Not in the case where I have to impress a co-worker with my culinary skills. Unfortunately, that moment will never come to pass.
So, I got up early, left for the market, got some cornstarch, got some bones for broth, got some lemons, blah blah blah. Came home and I went at it. I was feeling pretty confident. This batch of meringue was nowhere near as soupy as the last. It was firm, it coated the spoon's back; this pie would taste as sweet as the victory I would soon have over it. And why stop there? As soon as I was done I thought it was time I put an eggtart recipe a friend of a friend of mine gave me. So, I got to that, as soon as I chilled the finished meringue and took a nice nap. So I woke up, confident as ever, thinking in my heart of hearts that these egg tarts would be so good, Cecilia Cheung herself couldn't resist. But first order of business, I had to get to work and deliver a pie, before I had to get to work. Does that sound confusing? It should. I'm a terrible writer.
I took the pie out of the garage, fully cooled mind you, grabbed a knife and cut through it like the fabric of time. I couldn't lose face - not this time; I was nothing, and everything.
And nothing again.
I plated a piece only to watch it ooze all over.
I cooked the filling long enough! I knew those shitty egg yolks ate up starch particles like pacman -Alton said so! It was thick! IT WAS THICK! I did everything right! Except one thing: make that damned pie right! Regardless, I could redeem myself. Redeem myself with pure ungranulated revenge. The pie had to die.
Afterwards I got to making the eggtarts. Reading the ambiguous email instructions multiple times, and doing unecessary tasks like converting 5/8's of a cup into mL's, and so on. Here's something I couldn't mess up - though I've never made any kind of custard. But eggtarts aren't custards, really. I mean, how hard could they be? I've eaten enough of them. REALLY! So I beat the eggs (more than I should have), I baked the shells, I added the custard powder, I made the syrup, I filled the tart shells, I pre-heated the oven. I did everything I was supposed to. But someone was holdin' out (motif?). And I can't think of a pun clever enough to crack this egg (see?). Why am still going on about it? The egg tarts didn't turn out either! I'd give you the recipe, but what's the point? Do YOU want tarts with a nice soupy filling? Howabout a pie? Howabout a blog entry written with better finesse? Sorry, can't help you there. Not today anyway. Maybe someday, but not today. At least with all the evaporated milk left over I was able to make some Hong Kong tea. And that's never bad. Don't worry Cecilia. I'm comin' baby. Someday. Eggtarts in hand; you, in a nurse uniform (for either a psychologist or veteranarean. Take your pick.). Someday.
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