Today marks the one month anniversary of my entrance into the blogging community. When I first embarked on my blogging journey, I had lofty expectations of posting multiple times a day, providing the online world a witty glimpse into my ever so intriguing world. However, as I am faced with the task of sitting down in front of my trusty Dell, I quickly realize that my life has no real interest to those outside of...well, me. One of the main commandments I set for myself as a blogger was to not complain about things, so that rules out whining about the start of classes, work, the ward directory, etc etc etc. I have wanted to post an entry for quite some time now, but I have been at a loss of material. Then, yesterday, I had a tragic occurrence which I am reluctant to expose....but I will anyway. For the sake of blogging (I love that word. Uses so far this post: 4).
It has recently come to my attention that people have an erroneous impression of me. Yes, I love to shop and would rather not be seen in public without being properly primped. Yes, I have years and years worth of various fashion magazines archived in my bedroom. I would prefer to have food delivered than turn on the stove. And yes, I will probably turn down a night of sleeping in a tent for sleeping in a nice warm bed and being able to take a shower in the morning. BUT, I am also quite handy with power tools, I can change a tire and the oil in my car, and I took the hunter's certification course when I was 12. I also am pretty dang efficient with a sewing machine. And I can bake a spectacular pie, with crust as light and flaky as can be. Or so I thought.
Yesterday, I decided to work on improving my marketable wife skills by making a chocolate silk pie. Originally, I planned to make a pie for my apartment, but then I decided to take one to the family Sunday dinner, and then I promised to make one for Alan in exchange for his absurd amount of assistance on the aforementioned ward directory (big shout out to Al). Three pies. So I started by baking the pie crust shells. Flawless. Not gorgeous, but so perfectly baked that I swear I heard a chorus of angels when I took them out of the oven. Then came the filling. Since two of the pie tins were larger than usual, I decided to make four batches of the filling. The tricky part, however, is that the recipe calls for three eggs, put in one at a time, and beat for five minutes each. It is quite a laborious project. Well, I had to put in twelve eggs, so I put them in two at a time and slightly increased the mixing time. Oops. It tasted pretty good, but the texture was more of a thick pudding than a whipped custard. Sad. That was my most impressive domestic skill. And I made such a big deal about it that everyone asked me later that night how the pies turned out. I was so depressed that I grabbed a spoon and slurped up at least a third of the pudding all by myself.
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