BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…Make me some piiiiiiiieee.

Thanksgiving – or L-Tryptophan Day, as I like to call it – was pretty good this year. I’m not one for setting aside a single day to do the “thanking thing.” I try to make sure I do it when the situation calls for it, rather than waiting. And, we all know I don’t buy into the concept of a divine being providing me with the things I need to be thankful for… Well… Except for E K, but her Supremeness is something else entirely…

But I digress <– My favorite expression – and activity – as we all know…

Anywho, L-Tryptophan Day was good. Did the hanging out with family thing. Got to spend time with our PhD niece, World Traveler niece, and College Freshman niece. The other niece and nephew are at that age where we Gr’ups are too boring to be around, so we didn’t see too much of them. As always, food was prepared, food was eaten, food was stored away in icebox crevices due to the overwhelming amount of leftovers – an L-Tryptophan Day tradition in and of itself.

When dessert time rolled around, several pies were on deck – among them being the traditional Bourbon-Rum Cranberry Mince Pie, and the experimental Bailey’s Pumpkin Pie – all direct from my kitchen. After some tweetage about the pieness, I started receiving requests for the recipe for the latter. So, here it is, sans picture of a pie because we ate them before I could take one…

MERP’S Bailey’s Pumpkin Pie

INGREDIENTS

3/4 Cup Light Brown Sugar

2 Cups Pumpkin (I prefer to use fresh, as we grow pumpkins here at home, but canned pumpkin can can be used instead. Generally available in 15 OZ size, simply forgo the 16th ounce and call it good.)

2 Whole Eggs, Large

1 Egg Yolk

2 tsp blackstrap molasses

1 tsp ground cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp ground ginger

1/4 tsp ground cloves

6 OZ evaporated milk

3 OZ Bailey’s Irish Cream Liquer

3 OZ Heavy Cream

1 9-10 inch pie crust (homemade or store bought, your choice)

DIRECTIONS

Preheat oven to 425F.

Lightly beat eggs, then combine with the rest of the ingredients in a mixing bowl. Mix well. Pour into pie crust (I am assuming you have put the pie crust into a pie tin and properly trimmed it. If you haven’t, go back to Home Ec and do not attempt to cook anything until you receive at least a passing grade.) Since many pie tins and pre-prepared crusts have different depths, if you have any extra filling, simply pour it into a ramekin and treat it as a custard.

Place on center rack of oven and bake for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 350 and bake an additional 40-50 minutes. It is done when a toothpick can be inserted into the center and is clean when removed.

Allow to cool, then cover and refrigerate, as it will be best when cold and dense. Serve with whipped cream, Bailey’s whipped cream, or ice cream – OR for the purists, a large slice in hand, over the sink, with a cup of coffee…

More to come…

Murv

It’s still painful to talk about. I know it has been a whole week now, but it seems like it was only yesterday. The horror of it all is still fresh in my mind, and I find myself waking up in a cold sweat as the nightmares plague my slumber. I guess that’s what I get for surviving…

It was cold. Especially for Florida. Of course, it was also early November and George Bush had stopped denying global climate change, so those were just the dice Momma au Naturale dealt us. The Sunshine State caught in the grip of a cold snap of epic proportions. Unbelievable as it may seem, when the sun dipped below the horizon the mercury would plummet into the danger zone. Yes… the 50’s. I actually had to wear my hoodie.

EK, John, and Murv - Prior to the ill-fated Trick or Drunking Expedition

Earlier in the day, provisions had been running low. That’s how it is with Corona and lime when you are at a festival in Florida. One minute there’s enough, the next, not so much. We scraped together a twenty from my wallet and handed it off to the provisions maven. We never saw her again. Who knew a Jackson could take you that far…

Well… Not far enough, because that’s about the time the trolley broke down. Any seasoned Festival-goer knows that when the Trolley breaks down you’re as good as dead – but we weren’t ready to give up. Steeling our resolve, we grabbed our plastic cups and set out down the pass to go “Trick or Drunking.” We’d heard a rumor that Pirates had set up camp below, and if we could make it there, perhaps they would share their rum with us. Or not. One never knows about Pirates, but we had to try.

The trip was arduous. We lost three on the way, not sure if they succumbed to the cold, were eaten by the rogue bear, or simply turned back. Eventually, however, we made it to our destination. After much parlay, the assignation of Piratey names, and selling off E K to the “Feral Cathouse” run by the Buccaneers, we were accepted into the fold and beaten severely about the head and shoulders – and livers – with rum that had been shown a picture of fruit punch. But it wasn’t allowed to look for very long, as it was only supposed to pick up a hint of the fruity punchiness…

Sometime during the darkness, a roving band of strange women, each dressed in black and adorned with bright red lipstick, descended upon the Pirate camp. Even the Pirates cowered, powerless against their overwhelming osculation. And yes, they scurried about like little pixies, kissing all of the male types and leaving gihugic Angelina Jolie lip prints on our faces.

We were sore afraid, and a bit titillated as well, but that’s a different story.

Eventually, seeing as we had brought the strange women upon them, the Pirates made us walk the plank. Being on land already it wasn’t much of a plank, however, there was the mountain, for we eventually had to return to our base camp at the summit.

John – as in John Gramling… Yes. THE John Gramling – downed what was left of his punch drunk rum and pointed at the distant lights in the sky. He burped, hiccuped, and then said, “I ain’t climbin’ that mountain.”

E K, who had been kicked out of the “Feral Cathouse” for torturing the clientele looked ahead and replied, “Psshaw! It’s just a gentle incline.”

“It’s a damn mountain,” John repeated.

And so we braved the cold, the wind, and the bear, stalking off into the early morning darkness (it was after midnight) and climbed the Altoona Mountains there in Florida. Just her worship THE E K, and me…

We never saw John again. Rumor has it RD ate him when the Pirates finally ran out of rum, but then, RD is like that. (You’d understand if you’d ever met RD…)

And there you have the true story of The Gramling Party. I’m sure that mountainside is haunted now… By John and a case of Corona. Maybe I’ll go back and look for him some day. I’m pretty sure he forgot to take the lime with him…

More to come…

Murv