TERRY: Uh, mom? Bonnie’s calling.
TERRY: Mom, I can see you’re stressed. You’re just pouring milk into the dehumidifier.
BONNIE (on the answering machine): Hey, Gayle! You must be so excited about your lunch this afternoon. You must also be exhausted with all the cooking that I know you’ve been doing. I thought to save you a little time, I’d swing by with a store-bought pie so you don’t have to worry about doing dessert.
GAYLE: A STORE-BOUGHT pie? What am I, from Les Mis? I BET you would like me to serve a store-bought pie at my pristine luncheon, Bonnie, I bet you would—oh, I bet—oh, I bet—oh, oh, I BET you’d like that, Bonnie.
TERRY: Why don’t you just use a store-bought pie?
GAYLE: The same reason your father and I didn’t have our wedding at CHUCK E. CHEESE, Terry. Because we’re not SLOBS in this house. It’s just tacky! “Oh, yeah, please come over! Enjoy the store-bought pie! And afterwards, let’s have a CHICKEN NUGGET FIGHT.” What you do when you serve a store-bought dessert, is you’re basically climbing out of the trenches, and you’re waving the white flag in the air. It’s a sign of weakness! It’s a lazy dessert. If I were to serve a store-bought pie, I would essentially be Robert E. Lee to Bonnie’s Ulysses S. Grant, riding into the Appomattox Court House, handing over my womanhood and passing in my Cuisinshart. Can’t you see what’s happening here? Bonnie’s trying to Shanghai me. Bonnie’s trying to make me look like a dried-up Baba Yaga woman by leaving me with the store-bought. Terry, when you serve a store-bought dessert, it says: “I wanted to have a party, but I didn’t wanna actually cook anything, because I was too busy watching The Drew Carey Show in the nude.”
GAYLE: I’ve got news for you, BINNIE. I’m serving the freshest Redwall pie you’ve ever goddamn heard of. Golden brown. Crispy crust. Look at the navel, Bonnie. You think you’re gonna find that sh*t in store-bought pie? I cut the umbilical myself. This is a grandmama’s puppet (?? not actually sure what she says here). This thing would make Ina Garten sh*t himself. We can’t cook this baby until ten minutes before company arrives, because I’m serving this thing PIPING HOT!
TERRY: That’s cutting it a little close, isn’t it?
GAYLE: I’m an adrenaline junkie, Terry. I need the rush. But I’ll admit, these are stressful times.
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