Apple pie is the culinary equivalent of a hippie commune. So very, very many things can go wrong.

Apples too done, apples not done enough, too much juice, not enough, top crust burnt, bottom crust raw, DEA raids and children named Sunflower. Anything can happen, and no one has any control.

This is why, up until now, I’ve avoided them – apple pies and communes. (Also I don’t eat cooked fruit or let my arm pit hair grow – but that’s another post.)

But I have Thanksgiving guilt. It’s coming. People are coming. They’re going to expect pie, and let’s face it. Nobody really likes pumpkin. If they did, it would come up more than once a year and wouldn’t have to be covered with four pounds of whipped cream.

So now I’m sitting here, staring at the closed oven door and imagining the horrors within. There’s too much nutmeg. I just know it. The apples are going to turn to baby food, and the whole thing is going to explode, catch on fire and come whizzing out like some sort of heat-seeking, napalm bomb.

This is why I’ve got on my rain slicker, two oven mits and my husband’s hockey mask. I’ve cleared all the upholstered furniture out of the way, laid down tarps and been practicing with the fire extinguisher.

At some point, I’ve heard I’m supposed to make my pie a collar. Odd, because as far as I know, it’s not wearing a shirt. Apparently, now there’s fashion involved.

Also, it’s difficult to construct clothing while wearing oven mits and a hockey mask. The rain slicker, however, really isn’t a problem. Maybe I could just put that over the pie for the last twenty minutes of baking...