You know, the best things I’ve encountered are unassuming. Perhaps a bit rough around the edges. Dirt-colored pie crust crumbling on its way to a plate.
I suppose I have seen many things go unplanned in one direction or another since we met.
[It’s been a long time.] And I was thinking-
perhaps a trip down Memory Lane will do us both some good.
Remember that time we had Colorful Kapusniak? That was tasty. And, Zucchini Pizza with Lemon and Chives. Crying. Also, when I drove around Minneapolis dropping off slices of Atlantic Beach Pie for everyone. Because priorities. See also: Warm Spaghetti Squash-ta Salad with Beurre Meunière, Tomatoes, and Feta. Dead. Ugh, and those zingy Quick Pickled Red Onions! And, remembering my dad with my Hibiscus Herbal Tea. Then, mending hearts with Lemon, Mint, and Rose Tea.
We’ve been through a lot together. I made this to celebrate, because surely
the only thing that can make brownies better (and I have done my research) is turning them into pie????
Buttery, crumbly, espresso-ed pie crust meets sea-salt topped, pecan-ed, fudge-y brownie goo. Slightly too much crust, like all pies ought to have. Sightly underdone in the middle, like all brownies ought to be. Because, we’ve been doing this thing for six years now, and I think we all know to do what we like.
thank you for following. Wishing you a future filled with less hate and more. pie.
love to you
notes on trickery + jack-o-lanterns on oreos:
I realized upon waking that I am not the same person. I have lost
the parts of me that fit, back then.
And I would not describe the loss Ideal,
nor would I admit those limbs have not been phantom, but
we are different now + i am able now
and even the cookies we knew as kids have different faces
when the world keeps turning, with or without,
changing colors and not waiting for permission to move on.
There is nothing quite like
the steam above a saucepan. A reminder,
something is brewing.
Think: an appropriate response to the warmth, with nothing
expecting anything Other. (Occurring) naturally to things in a pot, heating.
[This is all you have to do.]
Vegetables in quarters and thirds, beneath sage leaves and sprigs of thyme. Rinds saved over time. Alcohol poofs into nothingness. Behind it, savory warmth. And then, pink. Oops.
I thought about calling this “I’m Going To Grad School” Tres Leches. It’s exciting, I guess.
I had reached a point where I would rather receive the rejection letter than wonder what else my life could look like. I applied to one place I knew I would get in. And then, I applied to the program I wanted to go to.
Shortly after that, I told my boss I would be stepping down. I realized, it didn’t really matter whether or not I got in, at that point.
[By applying to grad school, I had admitted to myself that I wanted to do something else.]
I clicked Submit, and I checked my e-mail to make sure my apps had been received.
I found, listed just after my confirmation, that I had received a letter. A job I would have been interested in months before was now available, and they had thought of me.
I e-mailed back, thanking them. And, I declined.
It turned out, I wanted to hear about school. Even if that meant missing out on a really cool opportunity, in the meantime.
Anyway, I got in. To both programs.
This means: A Big Life Change is weeks away, and I am simmering rhubarb on the stove and mixing rosewater into its syrup, pureeing the solids for their endpoint…whipped cream. Syrup goes in three milks, poured over yellowy sponge.
And, you know, I didn’t really know how it would turn out. Too sweet, maybe? Or, sour? Not pink enough? And, would the puree in the cream overdo it? But it turns out, it’s the best thing I could’ve done.