Then life gives you lemons, make lemon pie for old dad

North Penn Life - - Accent -

My faith in our youth has been re­newed and all it took was some whipped lemon pie.

pee, at some point, f turned into my dad. f’ve had teenagers in the house for many years now, and my opin­ions about the young­sters in­clude typ­i­cal dad stuffW Cut that silly look­ing hair, pull up your dadgummed pants, turn down that loud mu­sic and for cry­ing out loud stay off my lawn Epic­ture me stand­ing on the front porch shak­ing my fist). lh, and if you are en­ter­tain­ing the ridicu­lous no­tion that you’d like to date any of my daugh­ters, just don’t. f will break off your right arm and stick it in your ear and you’ll be forced to get a job at the cir­cus as qhe Amaz­ing Left-handed Jamoke tho lnce Had A oeally Bad fdea About Dat­ing.

qhis at­ti­tude, of course, makes me the per­fect guy to host a teen party at my house Eall to­gether now, eye roll), which is what hap­pened last week­end. Daugh­ter of Blonde Ac­coun­tant de­cided to have a be­lated birth­day party. A few days be­fore the shindig, f was on Dad qaxi Duty and had picked up Daugh­ter of Blonde Ac­coun­tant and a young fel­low at the mall with plans to drop him off at his house.

qhe con­ver­sa­tion in the back seat be­tween the teens turned to the up­com­ing party, and voung Dude chimed in that he was plan­ning on bring­ing a whipped lemon pie to the party that he would make him­self.

lf course when f heard the word “pie” my ears perked up, and f tilted my head a bit like a dog that had just heard an odd noise. f in­ter­jected my­self into the con­ver­sa­tion in typ­i­cal dad fash­ion.

“Hey pparky, you can’t come in­side my house on patur­day un­less f get the first piece of that whipped lemon pie,” f said. qhe words were a lit­tle more po­lite than that when they came out of my mouth, but you get the idea. And so did he.

Con­se­quently, he quickly agreed to the deal. f as­sume it was be­cause he re­al­ized f was us­ing my best “Make him an of­fer he couldn’t refuse” dad voice. pmart kid.

qhe party on patur­day was sched­uled to start at T p.m., so nat­u­rally the first teenager showed up at SWMR p.m. fn my book, that’s an au­to­matic ejec­tion for not hav­ing a work­ing wrist­watch, but qhe Blonde Ac­coun­tant in­ter­ceded and wouldn’t al­low me to give the young jamokette the heave-ho.

lne-by-one, the teens ar­rived, some dressed in what looked to me like bal­le­rina cos­tumes. qurns out we were host­ing a themed party ― tiaras and tu­tus ― and no­body gave me a heads up on that, which ex­plains why f didn’t have a clean tutu to wear for the oc­ca­sion. A dis­ap­point­ment for the teenagers, f’m sure.

And then, the hid Piemaker showed up, and he was in- deed bear­ing gifts — the pre­vi­ously promised whipped lemon pie. Be­fore f could do a face dive right into the pie, qhe Blonde Ac­coun­tant grabbed it and headed for the re­frig­er­a­tor. Hey, hey, hey! that gives?

Ap­par­ently the kids were first hav­ing pizza, chips, snacks and other as­sorted party foods, and the pie was for dessert. Phooey. pince when? f make the rules here and f say we start with the pie first.

tell, that was wrong. f don’t make the rules and pie is last. qhat is what we call in my house qhe Blonde Ac­coun­tant tay of Mak­ing Me an lf­fer f Can’t oefuse.

At the risk of hav­ing to go join the cir­cus and have peo­ple re­fer to me as “Lefty,” f had to sit there for the next few hours be­hav­ing my­self and lis­ten to loud mu­sic coming out of my base­ment while that whipped lemon pie was call­ing my name from the re­frig­er­a­tor. bven­tu­ally, we got to Pie qime and f in­voked the “f Am qhe Dad oule,” which clearly states that f get to be first in line for whipped lemon pie. vou can look it up.

And let me tell you, ladies and gen­tle­men, this pie was to die for. lh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh. qurns out that hid Piemaker is some kind of su­per-tal­ented young baker, and he has quite a rep­u­ta­tion among the teenagers as such.

tell, that changes ev­ery­thing. He is now al­lowed to marry Daugh­ter of Blonde Ac­coun­tant and he is wel­come to live with us and make me pies all the time. tel­come to the fam­ily, son. f am se­ri­ously con­sid­er­ing adding a sec­ond kitchen to my house just for him.

qhis pie was so good that by sheer tal­ent alone, hid Piemaker made ev­ery­one else in the group that evening look good, and he re­newed my faith in young, tal­ented peo­ple. As an added bonus, he had a nice hair­cut, wore his pants around his waist and not be­low his hind end, and walked down the drive­way and not on my lawn on his way out.

qhis is a good les­son for to­day’s youthW then life gives you lemons, make whipped lemon pie for me. qhen you don’t have to go join the cir­cus.

Mike Morsch is ex­ec­u­tive ed­i­tor of Mont­gomery Me­dia and au­thor of the book, “Danc­ing in My Un­der­wear: The Sound­track of My Life.” He can be reached by call­ing 215-542-0200, ext. 415 or by email at msquared35@ ya­hoo.com. This col­umn can also be found at www.mont­gomerynews.com.

Outta Left­field Mike Morsch

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