I’ve given all I can give to this year. Haven’t we all? Pandemic, record unemployment, racial injustice, unsurvivable storm surges, and now I have baked a pie that sucks as much this year does. And I’ve done it twice. This year is just a clusterfuck on every level.

When I got this recipe, I took Mrs.Leonard Krallman at her word that this was a “gude” one. Well, fuck her. It isn’t. Maybe in the 18th century, when smallpox and infrequent bathing was all the rage, a runny pie with soggy bread bits was a delicacy, but in 2020, it’s just another form of mockery. You want a good pie, but no, 2020 says “Fuck that. You don’t deserve pie.”

First off the instructions are vague at best, and so the baker is left to make assumptions about the process. Basically, just bung it in a bowl, stir, pour between two pie crusts, set the oven to the temperature of your choosing, and pray for the best.

From the onset, between the vinegar and the water I thought the recipe called for way too much liquid. 6 cups of liquid between all of the ingredients and nothing that would really bind or cause the ingredients to gel. Maybe substitute dark corn syrup for the molasses? Maybe leave the fucking water in the well?

I tried leaving it overnight in the fridge to see if that helped solidify the center, but no go. It was still soupy and running all over the place when sliced. Most “crumb” pies call for the addition of some kind of fruit, generally apples. Maybe that would have helped a bit here. Maybe it would have made for sad runny apple pie. I did a little digging on the Googles and the closest relative I found find to this culinary abomination was an Amish Vanilla Crumb Pie.

But undaunted by crushing disappointment, I fed it to my husband, Poor Bastard, and Crazy Neighbour Dude who some of you may remember from years past. Neither was pleased to have been honored with a slice of pie. Crazy Neighbor Dude’s official review was “It has this beyond weird taste of that Mexican pumpkin candy. Oddly there’s an after taste but it doesn’t linger in the mouth that long(thank god!).” The Poor Bastard is sleeping in another room until he decides to forgive me.

And with this ends another culinary adventure courtesy of Dinner Is Served 1972‘s annual Pieathalon. Here’s hoping 2021 is better for all of us, all the way around.

Also, as of the time of this writing, they still have not arrested the cops who killed Breonna Taylor. Why the fuck not? Say her name. Over and over and over until they finally hear us.

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The cookbook was compiled by a Louise Henderson, with illustrations by J. Paul Hisey. It looks like the pair compiled 4 different books/pamphlets in the late 1960s and early 1970s.