when all else fails, bake a pie

I’m having a blue day. Maybe it’s the sinking temperatures, the grey skies, fluctuant hormones, approaching holidays, or all of the above. Looking forward to my busy up-coming weekends now that I’m a vendor at the esteemed Eastern Market (Capitol Hill EM- lest you Detroiters think I’ll be setting up a table next to the smokey wintery winds of Bert’s BBQ.)  I have so much work to do. Unfortunately, it’s one of those days when the best I’ve got is just to remind myself that this too shall pass. So, I press on.

There’s still no bun in the oven despite our shrines, vibes and incantations. Oh, and the last 4 months of seemingly constant trips our the local baby lab, aka fertility clinic. Is there a saint you can bury in the backyard for this sort of thing? That worked so well for us before when we miraculously accomplished the impossible and sold our house in Detroit.  And speaking of miracles, the more I learn about fertility the more I can’t BELIEVE that any of us are here. It’s such a one in a million deal and even more so for an oldster like myself. It’s a wonder I ever wasted an ounce of concern on “unwanted” pregnancies.

I’ve made the mistake of setting mental milestones of when I was “positive” we’d have great news to share with our families. I played the scenarios over and over in my head, waiting for just the right moment to spring it on everyone. Perhaps they’d already have gotten suspicious once they noticed I wasn’t diving into the wine bottle with my usual aplomb. Maybe they’d have noticed the soft and resonant glow of my complexion, how thick and lush my mane or the stolen blissful glances of sweet satisfaction with Snakes. Maybe during a lull in the conversation (though unlikely with my family as free flowing as booze is around the holiday). Maybe Snakes would propose a toast before dinner.  Maybe I would quietly pull my parents aside for a perfectly tender holiday moment.  The latest milestone was Christmas. And the only thing perfectly tender will be my dad’s smoked salmon.  I foolishly thought this good news might help to soften the blow when I meet all of the other unplanned or otherwise babies that were born this year into my family.  Unplanned. I can’t even wrap my head around that. (I am such a hag. I hate it that I have anything but unbridled joy when welcoming a new little life force into the world. Crazy, angry lady.  The one who puts dog hair in her Halloween candies.)

So today’s a little tough. In the grand scheme of things, I realize that things can ALWAYS be worse. I feel like a jack-ass posting something like this after steeping so recently in that season of gratitude.

Which brings me to the only thing I may be capable of today. Baking a pie. I need golden flaky pastry crust and warm juicy fruit. I need the smell of that buttery pie to warm my house and me from the inside out. I need the bright tang of the berries to jolt me back to myself. I need a generous dollop of freshly whipped cream to remind me that everything is gonna work out just fine.