Word Count: 1270

With Thanksgiving over, Paris no longer dreaded her time in the kitchen.

Indeed, it had returned to its former pristine glory; the counter-tops were spotless, the refrigerator no longer overflowing. Once again it was her safe place, perhaps the most used room in a house of dozens, second only to the at-home dance studio which joined it at the back of the house, from whence one could overlook the vast, perfectly groomed gardens. With autumn sunlight streaming through the large windows, and a cool breeze rustling the evergreens, everything seemed peaceful, not rushed, and Paris could enjoy a few quiet moments to herself.

After the utterly horrific experience of planning and preparing a Thanksgiving dinner for over thirty people, Paris was looking forward to picking up her old habits. The rest of the week went by in a rush of classes, rehearsals, and patrols, but on the weekends, at least, she could find the time to engage in more relaxing pursuits.

For Paris, this meant hours spent toiling away in the kitchen, baking sweets, making jams and other such preserves, or testing new recipes for she and Chris to enjoy at dinner.

And there was no better excuse for that than a cooking contest.

The decision to enter was made on a whim, perhaps born out of her fondness for hokey displays and the chance to amuse herself with a bit of campy 50's housewifery. She could use a bit of banality in her life, after all, and it seemed such a shame to miss out on the opportunity when it was so conveniently presented to her in the perfect set-up

The intended dish? Quite simple.

What could possibly be more appropriate for the situation (and her intentionally hackneyed approach to it) than an apple pie?

First, the pie crust. No store bought crust was good enough for Paris Gallo under normal circumstances, and surely for such a thing as a cooking contest it was best to go home-made. Flour, salt, and sugar, then butter and a tablespoon of water. She mixed it all together, formed it into a mount on the counter-top, and worked it with the palm of her hand. The resulting discs of dough she wrapped in plastic wrap and left to refrigerate for one hour, which she spent finishing a short homework assignment and hopping onto Facebook to update her status to something ridiculously trite—“no better way to spend the weekend than at home with my hubby baking some apple pie! <3”

Second, the initial construction. Paris removed the dough from the refrigerator an hour later, let it soften a bit at room temperature, and went to work with her rolling pin on her lightly floured counter. The first disc went to the bottom of a nine-inch pie plate; the second laid in wait.

Third, the filling. She peeled the apples, four Cortland and two Granny Smith, cut them, removed their cores, and trimmed the ends with a paring knife; then she put them in a large bowl and tossed them with lemon juice. In a second bowl she mixed brown sugar, granulated sugar, cinnamon, kosher salt, and nutmeg. In a third she beat an egg white with a teaspoon of water; with this she lightly coated the bottom and sides of the dough in the pie-pan. Then it was the apples to be mixed with the sugar-cinnamon-nutmeg blend, which finally ended up in the pie.

Artfully arranged and scattered with a few small cubes of butter, she covered the pie with the second disc of dough, fluted the dough around the edge, lightly brushed the top with cold water and followed it with a sprinkling of sugar, and after she made sure there was sufficient ventilation with four perfectly placed slits at the top of the pie, Paris wrapped the edge in aluminum foil to prevent it from over-browning, and slid it into the pre-heated oven to bake, with a drip pan on the rack beneath to catch any overflowing juices.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Paris had a perfect home-made apple pie with a delectably flaky golden-brown crust.

Pleased with her success, Paris proceeded to upload a picture onto Instagram.

#applepie #yuummm #allamerican #cookingcontest #50shousewife #homecooking #noplacelikehome

And so on, so forth.

Then, with a satisfied sigh, Paris cleaned up the kitchen and left the pie to cool.

Alas, a couple of hours later when Paris traipsed back into the kitchen for a drink in the midst of a bit of dance practice, she noticed something quite out of place. As she passed the counter, her eyes drifted toward her pie, intending to unleash another cheery sigh for her accomplishment. It really was a work of art, she thought.

Or it would have been if there hadn't been a large, gaping wound in it.

Aghast, Paris stopped on her way to the refrigerator and stared at her once perfect pie. An entire third of it had been inexpertly cut away, with the innards seeping into the empty space in the sort of sticky apple soup that spoke of too little time spent cooling before cutting.

There were many benefits to living in a large house outside the city, surrounded by a perimeter wall of stone and heavy gates that opened only for those who were permitted access, with only one other person generally in her company. At the moment, this proved equally beneficial, as she knew immediately who the culprit was. She had no reason to seek an explanation, and yet it would be counterproductive not to.

“Christopher,” Paris called through the intercom.

It was a few moments before she got a reply.

“Yeah?” he said.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Homework, why?”

“Can you come down into the kitchen, please?”

It was another few moments before Chris made his way downstairs. He ducked cautiously into the kitchen, an area of the house he was not often allowed to enter (especially without supervision) due to his unfortunate lack of any decent cooking ability. He was careful not to touch anything, and stood waiting for Paris to explain the reason for her request, his face set in such a cute expression of confusion that Paris found she was unable to feel angry.

“Uhhh, so... what is it?” Chris asked.

Paris chose not to say anything, but rather pointed to her demolished pie.

Chis looked at it, smiled nervously, and lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Sorry, I was hungry.”

Paris's eyebrows inched upward, yet she continued to hold her silence.

“I put the plate and the fork and the pie carver thing into the dishwasher when I was done with them!” Chris said earnestly.

“But you ruined my pie,” Paris told him.

“But... but there's still plenty left for after dinner.”

“It wasn't for you, Christopher. I made it for a cooking contest.”

Chris's eyes widened with comprehension, and he looked from the mutilated pie to Paris with rapidly growing remorse. “Oh... um... Paris... I... I'm sorry. It was just sitting there and I thought it was okay. Um... it was really good?” he tried.

Paris forced an exaggerated sigh but could not quite manage to conceal her smile. “I suppose I'll make another one then,” she said.

“I won't touch it, I swear,” Chris assured her, and held up both of his hands in a show of innocence.

Paris made a sound of acknowledgment, gathered the ingredients and necessary supplies, and set to work.

Crust first, then filling, and another status change on Facebook—“take two! <3”