The pie project

Paragliding in the Swiss Alps

Talk to my parents and they'll tell you.  Megan was never domesticated.  As a child my father discouraged me from doing any activities that were stereotypical of the female sphere.  I was fashioned into a perfect tom-boy.  A gymnast first, then a kick-boxer and I even had a short, boy hair-cut to boot.  My dad taught me that there was nothing I couldn't do.  And I believed him. From black belts to full scholarships to college, I knew I could beat the boys just like I did in elementary school when I whooped all of them at arm-wrestling.  In the first 25 years of my life I did so many things.  I paraglided in the Alps, cave-tubed in the jungles of Belize, read poetry at Emily Dickinson's grave, stood inside the Coliseum, climbed to the top of the Eiffel Tower, drank wine in a German castle, went zip-lining in Kauai, kayaked in the Grand Cayman, earned a bachelors, masters, and credential. I bought my own home, survived being a target of a gang initiation, and even managed to fall down an entire flight of concrete stairs without breaking a single bone. But there was one thing I hadn't done.  I had never learned how to cook.

And then it happened.  I met someone.  Not just someone but the man I am now in love with.  And guess what?  He loves pie. 

My first pie--raspberry deliciousness!

In the first few months of our relationship I baked him cookies--mostly peanut butter and chocolate chip.  I knew how to do that at least.  But pies?  Well, I had made a pumpkin pie and an apple pie a few times before (and usually with the help of my sister who is far more domesticated than I am).  Five months into our relationship I was on summer break (I'm an English teacher), and I decided I would finally learn how to make a pie.  So for my boyfriend's 30th birthday I baked him a raspberry pie.  I now know what was missing in my life for 26 years.