I am not a competitive person. Growing up, I never had any interest in organized sports. I was on the basketball team (B team, mind you) in middle school. There was one game that the coach had to call a time out because I got tangled in my jersey. Yeah. That’s how good I was. Trophies never interested me, nor ribbons. But when a friend of mine mentioned that he was thinking of entering a pie contest, in a county fair about an hour from where we live, I was immediately intrigued. This was one competition that I could get behind.

I entered an apple pie, he entered a pumpkin.

Now I know that me, a California girl, was taking a risk entering an apple pie in New England– home of the apple pie. But I figured I live in Connecticut now, I had to experience local color. I might not be a died in the wool Blue Blood, but I could dabble. So I made an apple pie– an apple pie with cheddar cheese crust to be precise. Borrowing from the New England tradition of eating a wedge of cheese right along side of their apple pie, I instead incorporated the cheese into the filling. This was a pie I have made several times for friends, and it has received rave reviews. (Pardon my conceit.)

When I dropped off the pie I should have known. It was taken from me, along with my registration, and put in a plastic bag– never good for maintaining a flaky crust. The participants also did not have an opportunity to name their pies. No judge was even made aware of the cheddar in the crust. I can only imagine the peculiar looks my pie received upon tasting. When I left the pie my pie for judging the next day, I shook my head to my friend. “I don’t have my hopes up,” I said.

The next evening we drove to the country fair. We shouldered our way in to the agricultural/food tent, and peered at the pies. There was my apple pie, a tiny slice taken out, all by its lonesome. Not a ribbon to be seen. Not even an honorable mention. I said it before– I am not a competitive person– but this is one contest I would have liked to at least place.

If it makes me feel any better, my friend, a wonderful cook in his own right, didn’t place either. Who knows, I might just have to enter again next year. Maybe with a more basic pie. Or maybe I will have to befriend a judge. A little nepotism never hurt anyone.