Tonight I have conquered an ancient demon. No longer are my pies ecstatically delicious ugly wrecks. I have made an accomplishment tonight which I believe to be one of the fundamental crossovers from industrial and repetitive labor to art. My pie crust is perfection. It was not, this evening, the crumbly bastard child of flour and Crisco--it was the heir to a throne, a creation so masterfully shaped by my imagination that it wanted to bend to my will, stretching (not tearing apart and blending hopelessly with tears and sweat) across my pie dish like some kind of greasy blanket of joy.