sesquipedalien

I am not a cook.

But I can read.

My mother never made pie before. Pie was a word met with a scrunched look of confused comprehension.

I found a recipe in one of those Kraft promotional magazines that oft sift into the garbage pile. It was saved by my curiosity. The object of my interest: A glossy picture of a traditional American apple pie gracing the cover.

My mothers voice didn’t hide the suspicion when she found ‘granny smith apples,’ ‘shortening,’ and ‘9 inch pie pan’ at the end of her grocery list, my handwriting making her scrawl shabbier. I smiled sweetly and told her, yes, I was making pie, yes, it would be good, and yes, I promise it was worth it. She raised one eyebrow, something that somehow missed my genes, and came home shaking her head.

“Peel the apples and cut into thin slices.”

If I remember correctly, I was alone in the house, seeing that I was being completely ignored by my sister. It was four in the afternoon, a Saturday. I never peeled apples. The peel happens to be my favorite part. I shrugged and brought the peeler to the polished skin. By the time I finished my nine apples, the worth of this whole project was descending. How could it take so long to peel apples!?

I cut them up and let them soak in cinnamon, sugar and nutmeg. Done.

“Cut the shortening into the flour until you have mold able dough.”

I didn’t know I was about to make a greater enemy of shortening… scooping it out of its container had soured a frown on my face already. Besides, how was one to ~cut~ shortening into flour?

Ah. Yes. Knives.

My poor,
poor,
poor fingers.

But they finished. And they rolled. They gently laid the foundation. And they poured the apples in. They covered the top. And they trimmed. They fancily pinched out an eloquent edge. And they cut slits as a finishing touch.

Had I eyes in the back of my head as I smiled at the pie in the oven, the smile would have never existed:

Dishes. And mess.

The pie baked.

Warm cinnamon and apples splashed the air.

And I wiped away the last of flour dust from the counters.

My mother smiled her proud one. My daughter, the pie expert.

They loved it. Of course they did. I happen to be the nicer type of hens.

I never made it again.

Two years later, I open the freezer door and find a Sara Lee lingering on the top shelf.

I laughed.

And laughed. And
laughed.

Pie
anyone?

The styles: fountain pens with their inimitable mars.

An infant, cheeks stained with a slender splash of grapefruit juice, arms up for the Winnie the Pooh and his honey bees chasing in circles too far above. His arms wave, tire, fumbling fingers then in his open teething mouth, then up again to reach. Eyes, yearning.

A tot, caramel hair in charming curls, fiddling with a tag on her candy stripe stroller. It rips gently. She grasps it, her painted nails slowly fingering the polyester instructions of care. Her seat jerks, the slip falls. The mother doesn’t notice. She stares, her neck twirled back where it lay, readily ignored, statue against the polished tiles. Eyes, yearning.

A child, knees white in the sun, elbows dark, staring at rings on a bar. He hops, fingers encircling the hoops. Swinging he goes, one after the other, legs in a frenzy of uncoordinated, subconscious moves. He misses. Palms strike the wood bits beneath, loud as quiet can be. He rises. He follows the next, perfection etched in his every stir. Eyes, yearning.

A teen, an hour before stared at her double in earnest satisfaction. A small smile of triumph given to herself then, now glances at the other, lips wishing to vanish, who towers against them all. She traces the gentle curves, the airy hair, the immaculate posture deeming a lady. Eyes, yearning.

A lover, music floating invisibly heavy, breathes. He clutches the phone, whispering. How, he wonders, how? What is in a girl that keeps him awake till 3 in the morning just to listen to her? The map crinkles as the fan brushes its air by. He measures. 2292 miles. Eyes, yearning.

A student, fingers expertly clicking link after link. He stops at the last button. The answer. The words that will write his destiny. He closes his eyes and clicks. He hears it. Solidly against the buzzing of his computer. They open. Inbox: 0. He collapses further into his chair, gaze wandering to the school logo. Eyes, yearning.

A wife, gently fingering the table cloth, dishes set in immaculate positions, sighs. The constant ticking has become a polite friend keeping company. The sun is almost gone, the curtains carving long shadows. Cold. Colder cuts. A tear falls as she faces the un-knocked door. Eyes, yearning.

A grandfather lies, I.V. stinging noncommittally in his arm. Surrounded by all he reaped, and all that he will leave, he asks himself, why? The pain overwhelms him, his muscles recoiling with reaction. He eyes the heart monitor, the green beam beating blandly. He cries inside and wishes. Eyes, yearning.

An Art. Of living.

Yearning.