When I was looking through my pantry this week, I realized I had a few items stashed away that really needed to be used up, specifically a graham cracker crust that I unearthed from beneath a bag of potatoes. I studied the crust carefully and judged it to be of fairly recent vintage, doubtlessly made in this century, at least.
I also dug out a box of butterscotch pudding and thought, “Aha! Steve loves butterscotch. We could have a butterscotch pie tonight as a surprise.” (Although we always have Oreos or some other cookie in the house, I very rarely make a real dessert for dinner.)
I delegated the pie duty to Sarah who whipped it all together and put it in the fridge to set. Later on, after the three of us had finished eating our dinner, Sarah got up to serve the pie. My back was to her as I sat at the kitchen table but I could hear her rustling busily about, getting out plates, a pie server, forks, etc.
The bustling was followed by some scraping and scooping sounds accompanied by a discombobulated sigh or two. When more than a few minutes had passed I said, “Sarah, is everything okay?”
She sighed and said, “Well, it seems as though our dessert tonight is going to consist of butterscotch casserole.”
Well, Steve and I (always on the alert for delightful and unusual combinations of words,) just burst out laughing. And as Sarah brought us our plates, she was laughing, too. It seems as though the pie crust had been smushed by heavy objects one too many times to hold its shape and the pudding hadn’t had quite enough time to get firm.
But Sarah was undeterred and undaunted. She festooned the casserole with a dollop of whipped cream and a spurt of caramel sauce and served it with a flourish.
And just so you know?
Butterscotch casserole . .
when served with love around the family table . . .