You and I are different
You and I are different
(If you like this story there are tons more here. You can also find a whole bunch of different books I’ve written right here. So, you’ve got a whole lot to enjoy. Check them out please. Thank you.)
In the last few months, I’ve found Ina Garten to be a wonderful source of all things warm delicious and yum. And most recently the inspiration behind my strawberry rhubarb pies. Ina has a pie crust recipe which is to die for. It’s not light and flakey but firm and crumbles just right in your mouth and is a trip to Yumsville Station.
My friend Jackie mentioned Rhubarb pies a few years ago so I got some and planted it but ignored it till now. Ina was bringing out the adventurer in me so why not. Why not make a pie with strawberries and Ru from our garden? Why not indeed? Bomb Bradshaw cautioned me from her spot on the sofa, “My mom made Rhubarb and it was never sweet enough. It was stringy and overly tart. Not a good experience.”
Oh great. That’s like saying don’t think about pink elephants. That’s all you think about. I felt my inner focus shifting from Ina’s glorious happy face to something darker. As it swam up before me, I felt the crushing weight of it’s gaze. The Rhubarb whale of sour, stringy defeat opened its mouth wide to swallow me like a Jonah cupcake on its birthday.
I rallied, prayed my brains out in terror, “Lord God please help me.” And you know what? He did. Bomb told me that was the best pie she’d ever eaten in her life. Wow. Really, are you sure. You’re just saying that. You’re just being nice. Tell me again.
“I’m not just saying it. That was simply the best pie in the world. But I coulda used a touch more vanilla ice cream.”
Wow! not just passable but delicious? Who knew I had it in me? I was scared to death of even trying and I hit it outta the park my first time up to bat? I love Ina Garten. But think she should man up and finish her name, Gardner, but that’s just me. I still love her.
I made a whole pie for my middle son and sent it over by the hand of Nate. I asked him to give Nate and his bro Wes a taste, confident he would.
He didn’t.
Now I feel really bad cuz Nate was Jonesing hard for a taste. After a day or two I pull the left-over dough outta the freezer, and go yank some more Rhubarb outta the garden. I’d like to tell ya the pie crust was easier but I’m new at this and it’s still tricky. But I made two more pies and told Nate to come and pick his up which he did promptly three days ago.
One of my grandkids was having a party and I seen Nate there. “How was the pie?” I already knew how the pie was. I was just looking for a bit more praise. Nothing wrong with celebrating a job well done is there? “The pie was wonderful. Amazing. Soo good. Thank you.”
The End.
I put “The End” in there to signify that Nate and my transaction was completed. I had given, he had received, he had given thanks and I had received it. So, our transaction was completed. So, I had no business nosing around the, “Thank You, Tree” sniffing for more tidbits.
I’m not like that and neither are you, are you dear reader? We’re not that kinda guy or gal that’s a desperate, black hole of neediness, starving for attention, validation, praise, endless thanks and overly cloying fawning gushing gratitude just for a crummy pie or a short story. Yes, yes it’s true, now that you mention it. You’re absolutely right. I had to wrestle heaven and earth for and descend into the depths to mine out the hidden nuggets of truth, then purify that low grade crummy ore and refine it seven times in the furnace of affliction just to give my peeps something amusing to glance over quickly and forget about for eternity. We’re not that guy who would even mention all the hard, unappreciated work that went into my labor of love.
Never! No, see, what we’re doing is just making sure Nate really, really, really was happy with his pie, that’s all. It’s actually a kindness and not a vain glorious attempt to wring a few more drops of thanks into dust dry cup of my psyche.
This is not a self-serving attempt to garner more praise for my fragile needy never satisfied ego. Ha, as if! Why if no one ever told me I was a great writer, the Cob Tobbler, the Bomb Diggity ever again It’d be fine with me. No one has yet told me those things and see! I’m already find with it. Heck, I think one of my life goals is to die unknown and in abject, crushing ignominy. Probably that’s yours too so both of us are good when it comes to doing something for somebody and really, not expecting or wanting or needing any kind of praise, abundant praise, overwhelming wash out the cattle town river of praise. Other folks are praise junkies and never get enough. Lap it up like a dog after spilled buttermilk or a Chupacabra after a young goat’s juggler. But you are I are good. We’re ok. Yup, you and me are pals and we’re not like that. No need to say thanks, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. I mean, you could if you wanted to and that was over seven times, in case you lost count. Seven is the perfect number and that number would probably be ok if you wanted to thank us for a trifle like a pie, or a story well done and not overcooked and burnt the way some chef’s and author’s go on. But you and I are not that guy and we’re not like that. The End.