A long weekend, Easter Sunday, the first bit of sun in days and nothing to do but bake, praise be. Family dinner at my aunty's planned, roast and all, otherwise a morning run, a nice latte from the local and a good five hours to make a pie. The making the dough, the waiting for the dough to rest, the baking of the crust, the cooling of the crust, the making of the chocolate bit, the roasting the oats bit, the waiting for the oats to cool bit, the making of the oat bit, the putting it together and hoping for the best bit. All of it. And in between - with the all the waiting - lots of reading the paper, listening to some Bob Dylan, playing with my hair and thinking about cutting my hair, folding sheets, casual yoga in the kitchen, thinking not to cut my hair, thinking about Europe, thinking about the pie, worrying about the pie, worrying about last Christmas's pie, worrying about my kitchen skills, worrying about my life skills, worrying about my hair, worrying I hadn't had lunch, making lunch and then, FINALLY, a complete pie. A DAMN FINE pie, a restoring my faith in myself pie, all just as it should be (well, for the most part)(the other part being me not having quite enough oats because I made a big batch of granola the day before like the cliche middle-class-white-girl I am and so it was a little bit shallow as far as pies go).