sometimes a pie is just a pie. and sometimes it takes more than you’ve got to give. it can be made of more than flour, butter, sugar, salt and fruit. it can actually contain the last traces of your sanity, mingled in the crust. it can be pounded out with desperation, held together with sarcasm and bitter feelings. i’ve made such pies before. in my own childhood, many meals were made of such stuff. and now i pass down that heritage of fighting/cooking to my own children.
no one at the friends birthday party could taste it. the last shreds of my humanity dotting the crust. the gooey overflowing filling was like the rancid sap in my heart after the things i said, my tone, the look on her face, the remorse. everyone said it was good. there was only one piece left.
i find that compliments like these are the whipped cream of raising kids. the approval of the masses sounds like tingling tokens at my feet, hollow as they fall and barely worth bending over to pick up. like so much in life, people only see the very outer most surface of things. no one knows the truth but me. the truth about my pie. and ruth. we know.
i can’t eat things like this, my stomach too acidic already, aging and anxious. plus as i said, my stomach was already overflowing with goo. or did i say my heart? it can be hard to tell the difference sometimes, between ones heart and ones stomach. they are so close and affected by one another. the things we eat can make our stomach sick. and vice versa. the things we feel can make our stomach sour, clench up and rebel.
i barely had enough to make that pie. flour i was not lacking. i have oodles of butter. still, that pie took everything i had, it even took from my family. so many invisible ingredients.