One of the first things David ever said to me was: “You know, you can’t handle me with food”. What? I didn’t even know what that meant. I come from a family that plans the menu for the wake while the nearly dearly departed is still breathing. We talk about what we’re going to make for dinner while we’re still eating breakfast. Our memories are marked by what we ate: “Remember, that was the year we had croissants instead of dinner rolls.” We call recipes by the family member’s name: Aunt Helen’s Divinity, Grandma’s Pecan Pie. Food is the currency of relationship. What was he even talking about?
David doesn’t love the thin veil of flour over the kitchen that comes from the constant stream of baked goods – sometimes Ruby and Violet just open their eyes feeling like whipping up a batch of cherry chip cupcakes. Sometimes I need to make six dozen cookies for the bake sale. Usually, it’s just fun to try a recipe out of a magazine. But, David man, he’s a tough customer. He’ll nibble at one cookie or bypass tasting a cake entirely.
At first I felt like it was a rejection. I offer food—especially of the baked variety–as a sign of care. I love you, therefore I feed you. I thought David didn’t want what I had to offer. I’ve gotten used to it, but I still secretly wish he’d go back for a second slice of cake.
Last week, when I was planning for Thanksgiving, David piped up from the living room, “Can we have cherry pie?” Missing the opening, I replied: “Cherry pie is not a Thanksgiving food. I’m making pumpkin, pecan, and buttermilk. You’ll like the buttermilk. It’s from the Homesick Texan.” Him: “But it’s Thanksgiving food to me.”
Wait, wait. What was I thinking? He’d actually asked for a pie. A particular type of pie. I recovered and bit my tongue. I hated the thought of making cherry pie out of season, using canned cherries and too much sugar. But, I had an opening and I took it. And now I have two cherry pies in the oven. I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Maybe there’s hope yet.
