I might have owned the Joy of Cooking, but baking was beyond me.
HOW CAN I HELP?” I asked.
My daughter-in-law, Amanda, and my son Timothy were expecting guests for a holiday party the following evening, and with their long hours at work, they would be pressed for time. “There must be something I can do.” Even if I was just visiting from out of town.
“Vacuum?” I suggested. “Polish the silverware?”
“I know,” Amanda said. “Would you make the apple pie? I already made the dough.” She nodded toward the refrigerator. Oh, no, I thought. Amanda had picked the one thing I’d never been very good at.
How hard could it be? I told myself. Apples, sugar, cinnamon. I pictured myself slicing apples and rolling out the dough. But my optimism went out the door with Timothy and Amanda. I’d tried and failed to make pies before. I couldn’t roll a decent crust to save my life, not even with pre-made dough. I was born without the pastry gene, just like my mother had been. My pies came out thick and leathery with spare bits of dough pasted haphazardly over the torn spots.
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة January - February 2017 من Angels on Earth.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك ? تسجيل الدخول
هذه القصة مأخوذة من طبعة January - February 2017 من Angels on Earth.
ابدأ النسخة التجريبية المجانية من Magzter GOLD لمدة 7 أيام للوصول إلى آلاف القصص المتميزة المنسقة وأكثر من 9,000 مجلة وصحيفة.
بالفعل مشترك? تسجيل الدخول
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