Saturday Scribes: August 2, 2008

The words this week: lace, lattice, converter, and the theme is catalyst

Those Two Minutes


The lattice on the apple pie wasn’t working out. The delicate strips of pastry were falling apart. Megan worked patiently, repairing the soft dough. Pastry took a deft experienced hand, and hers was just learning. Making the lattice pastry reminded Megan of the first time she had tried to play guitar. Her fingers had felt awkward and clumsy against the narrow band of strings. Pressing the hard metal strings hurt. Curling her fingers was deeply uncomfortable. Finding the positions between frets stretched her brain to the max. Then, slowly, gradually, her hands became comfortable with the movements, her fingers became nicely callused. It took several years. Megan reminded herself of this. Two years minimum. So why did she expect to be able to make a perfect lattice crust on her second attempt? Because baking was easy, wasn’t it?


Not satisfied with her work, but willing to accept what was done, Megan carefully put the pie in the oven, and poured herself a cup of tea. Her mind returned to the reason she was busy making pies. To forget. To remember and to forget. It as if the forming and reforming of difficult pastry dough allowed her conscious mind to deal with last night. “Sorry,” The voice had called out from above the room. A voice from the dead. It had felt very, very unreal. Matthew had been foaming at the mouth. “Sorry.” the voice had called. Just those words. It was her uncle’s voice. What did he have to be sorry about? It had been years since Uncle Terry had died. Years. Megan had been 14 years old, maybe 15. She could barely remember him.

Yet Uncle Terry’s voice made her cry. Megan had been siting at that table, ready to laugh at the fakery, the hypocrisy, the comedy of these kind of pseudo-spiritual gatherings. Instead, she found herself crying, crying as if her heart would break. After the seance, they drank sherry. Megan stayed long enough to pull herself together. Matthew saw himself as a converter of souls.

“You will be coming back, Megan?” he touched her waist gently. Megan recoiled suddenly and violently.

“I’m not sure.” Megan made for the door. She drove home too fast. Upset. Angry. Why was she crying? She loved her Uncle Terry. He’d been so kind to her.

Megan finished her tea and took a quick peek at the pie. The initial fifteen minutes for baking the top at 425 degrees was almost over. In a couple of minutes, she could put the oven at 350 degrees so that the inside, all the apples she painstakingly cut, would bake through, and turn soft and delicious.

Those two minutes needed to pass, and Megan looked out the little kitchen window near her stove. They had pretty little lace curtains on each side, and, as Megan looked at those lace curtains, she suddenly recalled another pretty lace border. Megan’s bed sheets. The pretty white sheets.

Uncle Terry.


Megan felt like a metal guitar string was breaking inside of her.

Then the buzzer rang.