I have made no secret of the long held wish for my final week of life, whenever/however that should come. I want to be in my kitchen, surrounded by pyrex pie dishes, butter laden crusts, syrupy fillings, a good dark roast coffee...and every person I've ever loved in my life.
Thanksgiving comes pretty close to the dream.
There are people I love behind every casserole dish and relish tray. There is tenderness and joy and a bit of melancholy over the holes in the family fabric left by those who are no longer gathered with us. We put down our politics and our jealousies and our insecurities for a few hours to blend into the whole that we create with our little piece of self wonderfulness.
And there is pie.
Does life get better than this?
I always wonder, as I stand in my kitchen this week of the year - almost giddy with delight over the flour on my apron and the pile of dishes in my sink...why don't I make pies more often?
Why don't I stop focusing on my differences with dear people more often?
Why don't I drop my raging insecurities more often?
Why don't I let everyone have a talent, a beauty, a thought, a presence grander than mine more often?
Why do we stop so infrequently to ponder the goodness in this sweet old world?
And why is there so little pie?
And enjoy your pie.