Griswaldian

Griswaldian is my favorite Christmas word, adapted from my favorite Christmas movie. You know the one. The fun old-fashioned Christmas that goes comically awry, nearly driving Clark to the nuthouse.

I apply this lovely adjective, encompassing such an expansive cache of family quirkiness and classic holiday foibles, to many, many gatherings, loved ones, and moments each year. Always in the most humorous and good-hearted way, of course.

This holiday has already offered a few near-Griswaldian moments, from the cacophony of sneezing and coughing caused by our on-going family cold to the celebration of our first of many Christmas's where Elliot kept trying to mimic the Griswaldian Cat and toast herself by the Christmas fire.


No, this year, the first, but surely not the last, Griswaldian holiday moment involved the lovely pie below (it was lovelier in person, I swear).


This pie was a joy to make. The crust rolled out easily. The apples were perfect, huge and juicy. Before adding the top crust, I gently placed dollops of butter and drizzles of vanilla over the apples, according to my recipe. I brushed the top with milk and sprinkled it with sugar, also according to the recipe.

Then I baked it. After an hour, I began to worry about my oven, as the crust was still perfectly raw looking. So I baked it some more.

When I took it out it was extremely picturesque, and I was so proud.

Then we cut into it.

Remember that classic turkey scene in Christmas Vacation? Clark cuts into the beautiful turkey and the skin bursts open revealing an overdone, dry carcass.

You got it! We cut that pie open, revealing what can only be described as apple sauce laying dully along the bottom inch or so of the pie. The perfect pie crust top yawned cavernously over the sad apple goop.

Unlike the original Griswaldian turkey, the Griswaldian pie of 2008 tasted alright. It was just sadly unfulfilled, so to speak.

Thankfully, our Thanksgiving was not.