It all started with a pumpkin… a broken pumpkin.

Actually, it all started with Women’s Retreat.

Which was this weekend… which I did not go to. I can’t remember why. When I made the decision to not go, and I watched the deadline for signups fly past me, I was perfectly okay with it, because I had a really good reason. Unfortunately, when that Friday came and 100 women climbed onto a bus and drove away, I suddenly realized that every girl on campus that I would be okay with just calling and saying, “let’s do something!” would be gone for most of the weekend. The only one around for part of the time was Rylee, but she worked on Saturday.

And so, Saturday found me quite alone, in my room, doing homework, feeling sorry for myself.

The day picked up, though, when one of the males who were left here (they chose not to go to Women’s Retreat as well, which was convenient for me) text me and reminded me of Shocktober Fest- a party for all males and all remaining females in Johnson Hall, one of the men’s dorms.
And so, I went.

SeaStars is the hall in Johnson that I am most “affiliated” with, I suppose. I know more guys on that hall than any other, anyway. And so, I spent most of my evening on that hall, watching people come and go, play Dance Dance Revolution, and engage in the highlight of the evening: Pumpkin Bowling. And then, one of the pumpkins broke.

“Alas! Our pumpkin is broken!” cried a broken-hearted member of the hall. “What shall we do with it?”
(it actually sounded like, “Dude, the pumpkin broke. Now what?”)

“Make a pie!” I screeched, diving for the pumpkin.

“No, throw it at Trustees (the other men’s dorm)!” cried the men around me.

And so, one by one, as the pumpkins broke, they were thrown across the parking lot against the walls of Trustees. It seemed to bring some sense of satisfaction for their testosterone-ridden brains, but my estrogen-run mind was not satisfied: the desire to bake a pie had been planted in me, and I was determined to find some kind of fruit to do it with.

It wasn’t until I watched a few girls come inside from the porch covered in water, carrying apples in their hands, that it clicked: apple bobbing was this hall’s second event. Apple bobbing means that there is an entire collection of apples, right outside on that porch… fruit was within my reach, and I was not going to let it get away.

I bided (is that correct grammar?) my time, waiting until the moment when George, the man in charge, declared the party over and then posed the question: “What will we do with all of the leftover apples?”
Fixing my gaze on the huge Rubber Maid tub full of water and apples, I screeched even louder than before: “MAKE A PIE!”
“A pie?” he turned to me.
“Yes! A pie! Or four! I’ll make them, and I’ll even give them all back to you guys to eat. I just want to make a pie!”
“A pie…” he mused, turning to the tub of apples. “Okay!”

“No!” cried the males around me. “Throw the apples at Trustees!”
“Throw the rotten ones!” said George.

It was the perfect compromise. As fast as they gathered up the rotten ones and began bombing the building next door, I was scooping out the clean, shiny, perfectly ripe apples, wiping them with a towel, and stuffing them in a grocery bag in an attempt to protect them from the roguish entertainment happening around me.

And that is how I ended up in Wal-Mart that same night, with a recipe for apple pie tattooed on my arm in Sharpie, gathering things like flour and sugar and nutmeg and pie plates.

And it is also how, on Sunday afternoon, I found myself in my friends’ apartment, making a mess of their kitchen in order to make four glorious, beautiful, delicious apple pies. (Shoutout to Kelsey and Elisa, by the way, who returned from Women’s Retreat just in time to help me peel and chop 14 cups of apples!)

And it is also how, later on Sunday afternoon, Kelsey, Elisa and myself found ourselves marching towards Johnson Hall, each with an apple pie carefully cradled in a towel (in order to protect ourselves from the 350-degree aluminum pie plates). We made the delivery safely and successfully, then turned and ran towards the caf, in order to make it in time for dinner.

“You guys realize, we just handed three apple pies to some boys, then took off running?” Kelsey asked, as we ran. “It must have looked ridiculous.”
“I wish they had a doorbell!” said Elisa. “Then we could have ding-dong-ditched them!”
Then, in my pie-obsessed state of being, I suggested, “Or ding-dong-DUTCH-apple-pied them!”
Kelsey stopped and looked at me.
“I just made that up,” I told her, proud of my new joke.
“I can tell,” she said, and then kept running.


I wanted to take a picture of my pies, but I forgot. And now, I fear they are too decimated to be properly photographed. And so, as I was writing this blog, I determined to myself to find a picture of an apple pie, and put it in here… if only to make you hungry.

Yet, when I Googled “apple pie,” I found not only wonderful pictures of beautiful apple pies that I’m sure were professionally lit and then airbrushed, but I found this, which I believe to be an even better representation of the concept “apple pie”:

That’s all. You can resume your normal lives now.

Yay, pie!


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