"the boiling of the water and the getting of the towels and the wiping down the surfaces"
i went home for thanksgiving and made six pie crusts. sifted the flour with the salt and the sugar, forked in the cold cold cold butter. got my fingers in the mess to break up the butter, smush it all together into a disk to roll out on my maa's cold granite countertop.
and then i smushed it and rolled it and swore at it and rolled it some more and pinched close the cracks and opened up other cracks and swore some more, and by the end of all that swearing and smushing, my pastry was cowering beneath the weight of my rolling pin and my anger, and the crusts baked up into hard, tough lumps instead of flaky, buttery shards.
(i should note that the fillings for all six pies - four pumpkin, two pecan, as well as a lemon cheesecake flush with curd - all came out perfectly silky and trembling. my sister made them, less harried and mulish than i.)
if that isn't a metaphor for kindness and forgiveness in the face of family gatherings and stubborn pastry, i don't know what is.
my maa left the nytimes magazine open at my spot at our kitchen table, a peace offering. she said the article, on quiche and cathedrals and midwifery and pastry crust, reminded her of me.
nb: this is a new little project, on healing. healer, heal thyself.