Saturday found my family snowbound. Family togetherness gets old really fast. To improve the situation, mom enlisted my help to make a pie. Apple pie. Some of you may remember my ardor and devotion to apple pie. My saintly mother!

The pie was a series of shortcuts—frozen pie crusts, canned apple filling. I didn't care. It was PIE. Besides, our pie's form negated any unoriginality in the ingredients! That's right, we spat in the eye of convention and make our pie in a 9x12 inch Glad OvenWare dish. Oh yeah. We define elegance.

We rolled the leftover pie crust pieces with cinnamon and sugar and placed them in a second ovenware dish. The rolls went into the oven, to the rack beneath the pie.

For meager moments we knew bliss. We dreamed of the treats to come...then, there came the smell. Acrid, offensive smell. I rushed to the oven and opened the door to find the second ovenware container melting upon the rack. Shocked, panicked, I squeaked, "Mom...! Mom...!" (Meanwhile she's returning, "What...? What...?" but I was too angst-ridden to understand.)

Eventually, tiring of our game, Mom came to the kitchen. "Mom...! Pan...! Melting...!" Amidst my sputtering, she peered in the oven.

"Oh...! Pan...! Melting...!" came her squeal. She pointed toward the sink, gesturing for me to throw the wreck there. We cleaned the mess, and checked the other ovenware container.

It was whole and unmelted as I raised it above my head to locate the container instructions. With a sardonic laugh, I read aloud,

Place on cookie sheet.
Place on middle rack.
Use one Glad OvenWare container at a time.

Mom chuckled and responded, "So basically....we did nothing right."

"Basically."