The Pie That Was Baked by Mistake October 30, 2009Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
My parents are coming to visit me and my sister for a long weekend, and yesterday I was out running some preparatory errands. I wanted a pie—an apple pie, maybe, if I could find one that looked good. Apple (in my humble opinion) can be trickier than other pies.
On a whim, on my way to the gym, I stopped at T’s. T is a most excellent piemaker. In fact, T makes the best coconut cream pie I have ever had. Her business has moved several times and taken on several incarnations over the years for a variety of reasons. You used to be able to go and pick a pie out of the refrigerator or order one made, but now (I was pretty sure) if you wanted a pie, you had to order it. As the gym is practically across from T’s, it was worth checking out to be sure.
I asked if she had any pies. No, pies must be ordered. But, she said hesitatingly, I do have one pie that I baked by mistake.
Baked by mistake? I, who have never even attempted a crust on my own, could not imagine circumstances under which something like this could possibly occur.
When the woman called, I thought she wanted the pie today, T explained. But she was making an order for Thanksgiving.
What kind is it? I asked.
Hmmmm. I like strawberry rhubarb. I imagine T makes a good strawberry rhubarb. Is it for sale?
So now I am the proud owner of a pie baked by mistake. It’s not the pie I was planning to have. But it’s found a home.
Mrs. S (for me, 2006–2009, when he suddenly tells me that he) October 29, 2009Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
has left the ether
“definitively” and I’m
I rush to hope, but no—it’s
What Mali Said, October 15, 2009Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
in her October 11 post: “It’s one of the reasons I read the blogs I do. They are all particularly good at appreciating the moment, about celebrating the simple things in life.”
Indeed. This may be why I am reading you, dear blog friends. This may be why I try to keep blogging—to remind myself of simplicities. To be aware of a moment.
This may be why I am writing nothing of late.
Mine is not actually a complicated life, but it seems to have decided to play one on TV. I feel inefficient. Day after day—with the exception of one recent deliciously productive morning—I can’t focus well enough to accomplish what I somehow believe could be accomplished. It’s frustrating, and in this frustration I am definitely not taking enough time to breathe in the simple. When I do, I exhale quickly, and it’s over.
It’s been a beautiful autumn, and I’ve noticed. Don’t think I haven’t. I’ve had a couple of wonderful weekends, too, but at their end, I’ve been too tasked to know what to say about them.
Perhaps the cat’s got my tongue. I hope that said cat is The Danforth’s Alfie, and that she will either scratch me awake or ghostwrite some Indigo Bunting posts.
xxx October 11, 2009Posted by indigobunting in Uncategorized.
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay