Sunday, June 7, 2009
Monday, June 1, 2009
Mmmm.... Pie.
May 31, 2009
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My friend Michaela can whip up a pie like no one else I know. She is the Pie Maker. Her pie crusts are light and flaky and perfect every time. The filling is always just the right amount of sweet, complimenting the cookies n’ cream ice cream that we both agree must accompany pie. Today, we decide to make a birthday pie, because today I turn 23 years old. Happy Birthday to me! I’ve dubbed it a day of decadence, and my friends and I will celebrate the occasion by doing what we do best and enjoy most: eating delicious food. We have an amazing menu planned, a dinner of seared tuna steaks and fresh garden salad. And pie. Raspberry rhubarb pie, to take full advantage of the massive rhubarb plants growing outside my apartment. The raspberries were also grown in the garden just outside my door, frozen after last year’s harvest.
Like all good chefs, we drink while we cook. We’re approaching the end of another hot and summer-like day in May, which makes the cold beers we drink supremely satisfying (I think about my friend Elena J. Scribbles–who lives out of state and cannot join the party this year–and wonder if she too is enjoying a beer in the late afternoon sun. She promised to drink a beer in my honor today, and I have no doubt she’ll follow through).
Marah arrives, and joins us in our beer drinking and pie making. She enters in a gauzy purple slip, her summer wear of choice, and the room is instantly filled by her presence. I have known these girls forever, they are the only two friends who are still in my life from my childhood. After thinking a lot about the fluidity of relationships lately, how people come and go from your life at random, and how true friends are hard to come by, I am comforted by these constant and steady friendships. In their company, there is clarity: I am reminded of where I came from, and they help me to remember not only who I really am but who I wanted to be. Upon being bombarded by other people’s bullshit and their perceptions of me, sometimes those truths begin to slip away. I question who I really am, and I start to think that maybe the way I’m living my life is all wrong. Maybe they’re right and I don’t really know myself at all. But in this laughter filled kitchen, amid the aroma of pie baking in the oven, I am reminded that these people know who I really am because they knew me when. When the drama and game-playing of high school got heated, when the bottom dropped out at home, when the demands of college overwhelmed us and distance separated us. After seeing friends I make as an adult claim to know and love me, and then bail in tough times, I am amazed and stupefied to realize that there are people in this world who loved me as an awkward, knobby-kneed 10 year old who still love me today. In fact, the unconditional love I feel from them is palpable, and I figure if they loved me then and they still love me know, they must be the toughest, truest, and most loyal of the bunch.
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My friend Michaela can whip up a pie like no one else I know. She is the Pie Maker. Her pie crusts are light and flaky and perfect every time. The filling is always just the right amount of sweet, complimenting the cookies n’ cream ice cream that we both agree must accompany pie. Today, we decide to make a birthday pie, because today I turn 23 years old. Happy Birthday to me! I’ve dubbed it a day of decadence, and my friends and I will celebrate the occasion by doing what we do best and enjoy most: eating delicious food. We have an amazing menu planned, a dinner of seared tuna steaks and fresh garden salad. And pie. Raspberry rhubarb pie, to take full advantage of the massive rhubarb plants growing outside my apartment. The raspberries were also grown in the garden just outside my door, frozen after last year’s harvest.
Like all good chefs, we drink while we cook. We’re approaching the end of another hot and summer-like day in May, which makes the cold beers we drink supremely satisfying (I think about my friend Elena J. Scribbles–who lives out of state and cannot join the party this year–and wonder if she too is enjoying a beer in the late afternoon sun. She promised to drink a beer in my honor today, and I have no doubt she’ll follow through).
Marah arrives, and joins us in our beer drinking and pie making. She enters in a gauzy purple slip, her summer wear of choice, and the room is instantly filled by her presence. I have known these girls forever, they are the only two friends who are still in my life from my childhood. After thinking a lot about the fluidity of relationships lately, how people come and go from your life at random, and how true friends are hard to come by, I am comforted by these constant and steady friendships. In their company, there is clarity: I am reminded of where I came from, and they help me to remember not only who I really am but who I wanted to be. Upon being bombarded by other people’s bullshit and their perceptions of me, sometimes those truths begin to slip away. I question who I really am, and I start to think that maybe the way I’m living my life is all wrong. Maybe they’re right and I don’t really know myself at all. But in this laughter filled kitchen, amid the aroma of pie baking in the oven, I am reminded that these people know who I really am because they knew me when. When the drama and game-playing of high school got heated, when the bottom dropped out at home, when the demands of college overwhelmed us and distance separated us. After seeing friends I make as an adult claim to know and love me, and then bail in tough times, I am amazed and stupefied to realize that there are people in this world who loved me as an awkward, knobby-kneed 10 year old who still love me today. In fact, the unconditional love I feel from them is palpable, and I figure if they loved me then and they still love me know, they must be the toughest, truest, and most loyal of the bunch.
The pie comes out of the oven and is so imperfect that it’s absolutely perfect. The crust is slightly burnt on top from an oven that runs too hot, and the filling is more soupy than it should be, seeping from any available opening. I can’t help but hope that my 24th year of life will be like this pie: pieced together from quality elements, shared with those I love most, and not entirely flawless but nonetheless filled with delicious surprises.
The rest of our meal turns out to be delicious as well. The sesame coated tuna steaks are perfectly cooked, and Michaela has brought a salad assembled from her own garden. The tuna is wonderfully complimented by an avocado and mango relish, and the entire dish screams "summertime!" We eat and drink until we become fat and happy. Satiated, we lounge on my deck in the twilight and look out over the garden: rows of corn protected by bird netting until it sprouts, a bamboo tripod with bean seedlings at its base, cloches filled with baby peppers and basil. It’s the calm before the storm, before the overwhelming bounty of summer, and in my minds eye I can picture the garden in full flourish. I compare it to the bounties I hope to encounter during the next year, and I think to myself: if the overwhelming love and sense of possibility I feel today is any indication of how this next year will turn out, it will be a fucking amazing year.
After the dishes are washed and put away and everyone has gone home, I am alone again. I decide to end this birthday and begin this next year by making a list of everything I am grateful for. Lungs that breathe air, a heart that pumps blood, arms and legs that work, a healthy body. The things I write down range from serious to silly. Two parents who love me. Feeling really happy today. A garden that is beautiful and that will provide me with food. The cool night breeze. Birthday beer and raspberry rhubarb pie. Having plenty of time. While mulling over all of my blessings, yet another blessing occurs to me: leftover pie. First I think, no, no Maria, show some restraint, you’ve had enough pie for one day. Then a louder and obviously more rational thought takes over and I think, what the heck? It’s my birthday!
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