Cinnamon Pie

I was watching Psych the other day. Shawn and Gus go to the town of Dual Spires to solve a murder per usual, etc, etc, but the point that stuck with me was the cinnamon pie they kept eating. I was so excited that I paused the episode halfway through to google cinnamon pie recipes. I didn't find anything satisfying, so no pie was made.

I was disappointed with this result, but days later the thought was still nagging me. I really, really wanted some cinnamon pie. Back to the internet I went. I looked and looked for a recipe that seemed yummy to me, but once again, I came up empty handed and, thus, empty stomached.

So I made one up today.

I just had a slice and ohmygoodness it is so good. You have to like cinnamon and you have to like delicious desserts, but this is awesome. And I'm going to share my awesome brainchild because you deserve to have deliciousness in your life, too!

Ingredients:
     Filling:
          2 Tbsp butter
          3/4 cup white sugar
          1 cup brown sugar (not packed)
          2 Tbsp flour
          1 cup almond milk
          4 eggs
          4 Tbsp cinnamon (this is a rough estimate, I just dumped a whole bunch in because I love the stuff)
          1 Tbsp vanilla

     Topping:
          1/4 cup flour
          1/2 cup oats
          1/2 stick butter
          2 Tbsp brown sugar (not packed... because who packs tablespoons?)
          2 Tbsp cinnamon

Prep:
- Preheat oven to 375
- Grease and sugar pan*
- Thoroughly beat all filling ingredients together. Batter will be liquid with some chunks of butter floating around if you didn't melt the butter prior to mixing. I didn't melt mine and I'm not sure what melting it would do. Probably nothing, but I have no data to support any theory.
- Pour in pan
- To make the topping, chop your butter into bits and then combine it with all the other stuff. I use my fingers and mush it.
- Top pie with streusel. It's going to partially submerge and you won't be able to spread it around, so you have to sprinkle it around carefully. (Or, in my case, sorta carefully until you get impatient and start dumping it.)
- Bake for 45 minutes. If it starts to burn before it sets, cover it in foil. I didn't have this problem; it was perfectly done after 45 minutes. 

* You could probably use nonstick spray, too, but I'm allergic to that stuff. Actually, you probably don't need to grease the pan given the consistency of the pie, but I hate when desserts are cemented to the pan and you lose edible deliciousness. Skip greasing at your own risk of less fatteningness.

N.B. - I know I called this a pie and then neglected to include crust. I decided to put my calories towards a delicious streusel topping rather than a plain ol' crust, so that's why that happened.

p.s. - I apologize to all of my celiac and otherwise gluten intolerant friends that this would be a no-go for you. Maybe you can tweak it a bit and still have cinnamon bliss?

Berry Fine Art

Summer: a time for sunshiny, happy, frivolous fun.

The heat inspires me. I take that back. The heat takes away any and all inspiration to do anything that requires local motion, so the creativity of my lazy activities increases. Here's the most recent love child of heat + hunger + laziness.

They're blueberry-stuffed-raspberries. Aren't they just the cutest little juicy fruit treats? I'm excessively pleased with myself.

My First Democrat Friend

Everyone, meet Lefty.

He's a stuffed donkey with an American flag embroidered on his left hindquarters. The story of how we met is pretty interesting, actually.

I was 14, going in for my first shoulder surgery at Children's Hospital. It was early in the morning, my stomach was full of butterflies, but bereft of all food, and I was shivering. Hospitals are all kept at an inhumanely cold temperature and they make you wear these very light cotton gowns that don't even close all the way. But I digress. The shivering probably had just as much to do with nerves as it did with the cold.

The first OR nurse I saw asked me a whole battery of questions while taking my vital signs. One of the questions was, "Are you pregnant?" I stared blankly at her and blinked a few times, very slowly. I was totally humiliated. "No, ma'am," I said, blushing. On the inside, I was yelling, "WHAT??? DO I LOOK LIKE I'M PREGNANT??? DO I LOOK LIKE SOMEONE WHO WOULD BE PREGNANT AT 14???"

At the time, I didn't realize that this question is standard procedure in any medical setting. If a woman goes in for anything - asthma, broken bones, surgery, concussion, bug spray poisoning, etc. - she will be asked if she's pregnant. The question will probably be asked several times, just to see if they can catch you lying, I guess. Mum explained it to me a few days later when I related this story. At the time, I knew none of this. I thought it was some sort of personal affront against me and my character. Hence the humiliation, spooned on top of some more humiliation. For some reason they had decided to subject me to this interrogation. Me! Why? What did I do wrong?

She continued, "Are you sure?" I nodded, wondering why she insisted on pressing the issue.

After she finished taking my initial vitals, I was ushered into another room. The friendly nurse there asked for a urine sample. "We just need to run a few tests, including a pregnancy test." My eyebrows shot up toward my hairline, but I didn't say anything. My humiliation continued. They didn't believe me. They had gotten it into their heads that I was pregnant and they were going to keep asking me over and over again and they were going to make me pee in a cup. Not only did they think I was sexually active (the effrontery!), but they thought I was a liar on top of that. Add to all of this moral indignation a personal & severe aversion to peeing in a cup. The struggle is real, guys.

After I came back, the nurse finally had something nice to say to me. "We keep a stash of stuffed animals in the back for all you kiddies who have surgery. You get to pick one beforehand and bring it into the OR with you. It will still be there with you in your bed when you wake up." I was a little confused by the offer of a stuffed toy after the repeated questions regarding my suspected pregnancy - if I'm old enough to be pregnant, why would you think I like stuffed animals still? - but I was relieved. Finally, the interrogation was over.

The nurse escorted me out of the room. Prior to this, my mother had always been present in the room. The nurse opened the cabinet and I knelt down next to it. She put a hand on my shoulder, "Go ahead and pick out a stuffed animal, dear, but I wanted to ask you when your mother wasn't in the room: are you sure you aren't pregnant? There is no chance of you being pregnant? There isn't anything to be afraid of, dear."

It was all a trick. A ruse. The stuffed animal was a ploy to get me in a room with a nurse, but without my mother. I almost threw up. (I have a sensitive stomach, guys. Don't judge me.) I repeated my previous answer. No, ma'am. I'm not pregnant. There is no way I could be pregnant. At all. Eager to leave this scene of trickery, I grabbed the first stuffed animal I could, stood up, and walked out.

A few days after surgery, my mother asked why I had a Democrat stuffed animal. I was incredibly confused. A what? "Lefty," she said. "It's the symbol of the Democratic party." I thought the American flag on my horse's rump was just a weird embellishment to make a stuffed toy more patriotic. Turns out it was a donkey. A left-wing donkey.
 

I've had Lefty now for 10 years. He's an excellent snuggle buddy. He has never betrayed or rejected me. He proved to me, from my early teenage years, that I didn't have to be scared of Democrats. Well, it was him and my physical therapist who was a staunch Democrat, but miraculously didn't have horns or a tail, despite what I had been led to believe.

So that's Lefty. Glad y'all got a chance to meet.