For years, when we lived in the Tampa Bay area, mom and I would share Thanksgiving with my best friend, Randy, and his family. One year, I, who had never made a pie before, took on the challenge of making the pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving dinner. No pressure. It all seemed simple enough and the pie looked perfect when it came out of the oven. I was pleased, thought I had done well, at least until dinner. The pie was horrible, it had enough cloves to choke a Clydesdale from Busch Gardens. What had I done wrong? It seems I had made only one mistake, but it was a biggy. I had confused my tibbles and my tisps, tablespoons and teaspoons. The recipe, as I recall, called for 1 or 2 teaspoons (tsp) of cloves, I apparently put in tablespoons (tbls). It was an annual holiday reminder for years to come, about the time I mixed up the tibbles and tisps.
The flaming Thanksgiving was my Grandfather's doing, thank god, at least I can't be harassed for it. My mother had left the holiday pies on top of the stove in aluminum tins. Grandpa went to boil water for his morning prunes, at least I think that was what it was for, and lit the wrong burner. He walked away to do something. Several minutes later the smoke detector went off. We rushed to the kitchen to find a flaming pumpkin pie and a room filled with smoke. My quick thinking, actually the only one of us thinking, sister grabbed the fire extinguisher and put the pie out. Everything turned out well and we all, except Grandpa, laughed about it for years after. However, we never mentioned it to Grandpa's face though.
So, this is why, along with the fact that he is better at baking, I let Richard make all our pies.
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