A tale of 2 shoo-fly pies

This morning, the Good Doctor posted this picture on FB as a very sneaky way of telling everyone that it is my birthday. He also made it sound like I made shoo-fly pie to treat myself on my special day. While I do love myself some shoo-fly pie (warm, with milk), there is actually more to this story.

One day, while the Good Doctor was happily traipsing around Kenya and I was joyfully being spat upon, hit, pinched, scratched and yelled at around home, I was also preparing a shoo-fly pie to take to church for our Sunday School class breakfast. I got up early so as to bake without a 3 year old helper and was very proud of the outcome of my endeavors. By this I mean that when it was time to leave for church, not only was my shoo-fly pie out of the oven and perfectly baked but I was also showered and dressed and so were all of my other family members who had been left state-side.

I carefully wrapped my still-warm pie in tin foil, placed it in a bag and set it between the front seats of the van.

Upon arrival at the church, someone unbuckled Victor from his carseat, and he promptly jumped down.

Right on top of my beautiful shoo-fly pie. I could have cried. Actually, I think I did cry. Too many Sundays without my help-mate and I was done. All because of a shoe in the shoo-fly pie.

I left the pie in the van and a war raged in my mind - do I go into class without a contribution for the breakfast (which could cause my ancestors to roll over in their graves) or do I go home and have a little pity party?

After dropping the kids off at their classes I returned to the van for one last check. Nope, there was no way this pie was salvageable enough to go to class. My shoo-fly pie had become a shoe-fly pie and no one was going to want to eat that thing.

Except my kids.

I don't think it even lasted through lunch.

So, this week, when I found out that my Sunday School class was again having breakfast, my pride knew it had to be redeemed; I didn't care that I would have to get up early on my birthday to bake without a 3 year old helper.

This one did not go on the floor; the person riding shotgun was warned that they'd have to hold my precious shoo-fly pie. And they did. It made it all the way to class just fine.

And that is my Tale of Two Shoo-fly Pies.