Hair Tangles and Constellations

Something about the impending holiday has brought out my Southern roots. Ryan keeps asking me why I'm "talking like a Southern Belle all of a sudden." I... didn't think I was. I told him to stop pickin' on me until I sneezed really hard in the car, followed it with a "Lord!" that truly sounded more like the word "lowered," and realized he was right. Damn.

Probably it's all the talk about green bean casserole, sweet potatoes (no. You say "po-tay-toe," I say "pa-tay-ta"), and pumpkin (punkin') pie. I really miss my family and our big, glorious, gluttonous holiday spreads.

In particular, I find myself missing my Mema who, you may remember, passed away suddenly. I remember how my mom and aunt would haul all of us kids, my siblings and cousins, to Mema's apartment after our own Thanksgiving feasting. Mema was feisty and independent (and, let's face it, kind of eccentric) and could rarely be bothered to attend family gatherings outside of her own domicile. She was a cantankerous smart-aleck with a sharp laugh that managed to land right on the border between convivial and rude, to where you felt pretty sure she was laughing -at- you rather than -with- you but never felt threatened enough to doubt her affection. She was short and thin, a chain-smoker who wore satin blouses and designer perfume, and she carried a perpetual air of affable indifference. She wasn't warm and motherly, the type of Southern grandmother you associate with smothering hugs, aprons, gentle admonishments... She certainly was no stereotype I ever heard of. She was one of a kind. I miss her.

The one grandmotherly skill I recall her performing with aplomb was pie-making. I never actually saw her bake one, so I guess it's possible she smuggled them in from someone else's kitchen, but whenever we showed up on holidays, Mema had a side table lined with many, many pies. Being a precocious dessertivore, I considered it my childhood duty to partake of each and every one. Having Mema's pies to sample almost made up for the horrible matching striped sweaters my mother made my sister and I wear to her apartment.

I remember the heavenly pumpkin pie, the tart apple, the gooey cherry, the oh-no-this-i-can-not-approve texture of the pecan pie, skipping over to the creamy chocolate pie, the blackberry cobbler, and the HOLY CRAP WAIT UP! *record scratch* Aw, hell no. What IS this?



"That's mincemeat pie," Mema said, laughing at the face I was making. "Don't you like it?"

Uhh... I endeavored to try it again. I put another forkful in my mouth and tentatively chewed. Kind of sweet... there's a raisin, meh... what the... what IS THAT? IS THAT ACTUALLY MEAT?

Why, yes. Yes, it was. I barely knew how I'd trust her ever again. The shame of being a kid who didn't like a pie... it was almost too much.

Of course now, as an adult, I know better. That pie isn't a dessert any more than Shepherd's Pie is a dessert. Shepherd's pie is a dinner. Mincemeat is a fucking abomination.

I am SO THANKFUL that Ryan hates it, too. We're going to make so much yum tonight, in preparation. While we're baking, I'll think of, love, and miss my family... and hope Mema and PaPa can check in and know how much I love them.