Skip to main content

Yesterday's slice, discounted.

"You know," she continued. "That one thing that your family always has for Thanksgiving. That whenever you don't have it, the whole thing just feels wrong." She went back to eating her burrito bowl and I sat quietly for a moment.

"No." I said. "We don't have anything like that."

We always made the pumpkin pie together. It was just a tradition that started before I was aware of traditions. It was just an absolute of the holidays. It was never Thanksgiving without us getting together one evening and making a pumpkin pie. As a child, I used to love doing it. I felt so grown up. This was something my dad was doing. There were so many things to do, so many ways to help.

Cutting open the pumpkin. Pulling out all the innards. Separating the seeds for later. Cutting the pumpkin. Steaming it. Mashing it. Mixing it.

As I grew older, I learned to hate doing it. My time was too valuable to waste making a pumpkin pie. If it was something my dad wanted to do as a yearly routine, fine. I had no interest slaving over a pie. There were just so many things to do.

Cutting open the pumpkin. Pulling out all the innards. Separating the seeds for later. Cutting the pumpkin. Steaming it. Mashing it. Mixing it.

And then, as I grew even older, I learned to appreciate it. Not routine, tradition. It was comforting. Relaxing. Meditative, even. I could see why my dad enjoyed doing it so much. And, finally, why he wanted to do it together. There were so many things to do.

Cutting open the pumpkin. Pulling out all the innards. Separating the seeds for later. Cutting the pumpkin. Steaming it. Mashing it. Mixing it.

And then, one year, he wasn't there. And I stood, alone, in the kitchen.

Cutting open the pumpkin. Pulling out all the innards. Separating the seeds for later. Cutting the pumpkin. Steaming it. Mashing it. Mixing it.

It didn't come out the way it used to. It was too sweet. Something had gone wrong in my mix. It wasn't the same. Nobody said anything about it at dinner. They smiled and complimented me on making such a wonderful pie. I smiled politely back at them.

And the next year, when he came back, we didn't make pie.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Plink.

I was young, then, with a vivid imagination and marked dedication to playing make believe. We walked down the row, scattering rocks and dusting off the silhouettes. I tossed aside a chipped, white stone. Years later I would recognize it as limestone and even develop a certain fondness for it. When all of the iron silhouettes were standing again, we made our way back across the field through the brush.

It was something between a tradition and a routine, lost in the limbo of recurring events. Almost an hour of driving into what seemed like void desert terrain that somehow escaped suburbanization outside of the city. I grabbed a handful of bullets and loaded the rifle. My rifle. A gift my father had given me, a .22 long rifle. I set the rifle down on the table, safety on, and stepped away. We always had fun, but there was a very serious undertone about the whole ordeal. It was unspoken, simply understood. It's fun, but it's not play time. Respect the weapon for what it is.

A weap…
Post a Comment
Read more

Vroom vroom, motherfucker.

I finally got my bike fixed the other day. It wasn't terribly expensive. There were a lot of things that needed fixing. And now, fixed. It was a fantastic feeling, riding it again. Such elegant machines. Such graceful transportation. It's a fluid exercise, really. You move and it answers, moves with you. Complementary elements. Riding a bike is a lot like dancing.
That would be me being clever.
It snowed the other day. There was ice, too, I guess. So the city put gravel out on the roads to help college students drive poorly. And so, since it's not icy anymore, the roads are covered in loose gravel. And so, I crashed my bike. I hit the patch of loose gravel at a very manageable speed and my tires slid out from under me. There's still some gravel and such in my palms that I can't quite get out. I had to get John's help with my knee. This picture really makes it look not that bad at all, but there was a surprising amount of dirt and gravel and tar in i…
1 comment
Read more

You're lucky you're pretty.

Friends are a difficult thing to balance, I've found. Groups of friends, I mean. That also seems to be a universal phenomenon. Associating with several different groups of people. Different interests, different personalities. All just representative of different aspects of your own.
And, naturally, these do not mix.
It's like old friends and new friends. But, instead, it's just friends who don't mesh. Maybe one group is very mellow and tends to fall into routines. Maybe another is lively and energetic. And fun. These people would never have fun with each other. Or, maybe they would. But the catch is that you wouldn't be able to balance between being the mellow friend and the energetic friend. Things just don't work like that. If only.
And, so, decisions are made. Tough, often. Who do you snub tonight? Tomorrow? Next weekend? And then, who gets snubbed more frequently? Eventually you just sort of fall in with one group of friends. That's really all anyone can m…
1 comment
Read more