Pie

         I took a photograph of our milk carton house and the two of us standing out in front of it. The air is hazy, the house looks just like a face; the wide-eyed windows tearing slightly from the dripping vines and blue violets hanging from the flower boxes, a nosy swinging door that cannot keep a secret silent, and a wide smile of shining blacktop. In the picture we are together with wrinkled faces baring crooked teeth and pint glasses splashing drops of tough, thick liquid over the rims dangerously close to the white-washed cheeks of the house.

         The days we lived here morphed into a loose pattern often forgotten or observed the entire week; Mondays were for dump runs, Tuesdays for collecting the popping grape tomatoes off the wiry stalks, Wednesdays we drank any kind of wine, and on Thursdays we were not to wear pants.

         My favorite days were unplanned, but always felt just right, they came along when needed. I would know as soon as the solid rays streamed through the eyelets trimming the ends of the curtains and punctured intrusive rounds of white onto the walls in that peculiar way. The early, glazing blaze of stark sunspots would paralyze and transform the walls from a slathering of rich creamy avocado into a smooth sheet of cool mint. The bustling of morning would invite me and when I was greeted by those orbiting balloons of lights, the day felt easy and charming.

         In response to the hasty sun, I would pull the film away from the dollhouse portholes allowing brilliant waves to sweep through and congest the room. I dropped out of the high canopy with a rested body and mismatched socks, and moved towards the closet. The hollow door cracked with a cold, startled breeze as I reached with one hand to the disorderly row of doting dresses; a faithful array of flowering patterns, slippery fabrics, blooming bows, and lines of buttons. They knew what day it was.

         I'd stretch my arms above me and let the budding dress fall into place and walked through the room of blue and into the yellow cubby. It was made of windows, an expanse of glass laid cheek to cheek with a railroad track running across encasing each transparent square. I did not love the awkwardly placed inanimate appliances, and the drifting, slippery table, but it felt wide and pleasant on those days. I pushed the oven into life and tied my rough green apron around my waist. The two pompous roosters caked onto the pockets and I pirouetted around the enveloped kitchen.

         Together we gathered the gritty canisters all lined up like nesting dolls on the high shelf, a descending mountain range of chalky flour, fine sugar diamonds, powdered hills of baking soda, ending with a tiny shaker of coarse salt. I upset the landscaping staircase and rummaged through the cabinets for the rolling pin, while the roosters would choose the most willing utensils and the measuring cups. They would quickly become lost in the jumbled mess of clanging silvers and twisted metal ferociously occupying the deep drawer; it was a struggle to create order amongst this group, though once convinced they shed their reluctant attitudes.

         We continued to dance this waltz with dreamy eyes until the complete army sat politely on the table awaiting careful instructions, although they knew the steps well. They had become familiar and sure of the motions, the French twists, and the spiraling turns that went along with the special day. With a flick of my clean hand to the dormant radio, it would open its fat mouth and howl out the rhythm and the beat to follow. Everyone would bow to their partner and begin. The concrete butter and the billowing flour crumbled together under the watchful eye of the oppressing fork until they became one and the fork spun them off to the splotchy rolling pin. The pin would join without hesitation, working its peeling red arms until the dough laid flat and thick.

         While the stuffy tableware conducted the trained ingredients, I would prepare the peaches, his favorite. The pregnant globes would prance about the cutting board until one by one they were halved, baring that strange beastly center. Each was sliced into a wedge of fruit with a rusty ring from the harsh pit and fade into the deep orange of the juicy meat. I would set the bowl of freshly slivered peaches onto the table as the crooning music tripped into a foxtrot, and the spices sprang up without missing a beat. The sneezing cinnamon and aromatic ginger would pepper the glistening wedges with a subtle dirty dusting. I would follow, plunging into the glass jar of silty brown sugar and tumbling into the bowl with both hands, gently marrying the crowd together. Everything became leaden with a layer of sticky wet sand, abrasive against the glowing skin of the apprehensive fruit. With a few more corkscrew turns across the ponderous kitchen, the bowl would be tipped into the smooth sheet of dough resting in its glass shell. The mixture fell slow and tired and settled quickly.

         The radio moved into a molasses tune of love as the concerned rolling pin would gesture towards the waiting blanket sprinkled with florettes of flour. I spread the translucent layer with a whisper over the worn innards and tucked in the sides with an obedient finger. They had danced enough by now and they did not fear the gaping jaw of the temperate oven. I added a last kiss of butter, a plentiful handful of sugar coated freckles, and a star shaped vent to release the steam.

         At that I would open the looking glasses, plug up the shallow sink, and throw everyone into the erupting volcano of bubbles. I could never figure if the excitement from the over active flatware swimming in the metallic sink or the distinguished sweet-smelling whitecaps flooding the house awakened the bear. Either way his lumbering body would appear, framed by the white crown molding holding up the doorway, and the tiny room would blush, shedding light on its diminutive size. He would trudge in and stretch his branching limbs to all corners, crashing into cupboards, disrupting the suspending coffee mugs, knocking over the splintered stools, all without intention or in spite. He was simply too big. He proceeded with a thunderous yawn revealing a steep overbite and the far spaced fence of bone colored stalagmites. The giant twitched his nose, gently squeezed the skin just above my hipbones, and patiently waited with nodding lids and elbows resting on the nervous table. He always waited restlessly, but steadily, combing the golden coils and snakes that flowed from his short ribbons of hair, curling just around the ears, and stopping just before the hidden cleft in his pink chin. He knew what day it was.

         While the disappearing nook filled up with palpable clouds of browning butter and syrupy rains of candied peaches, and the washing was set to dry, we would hunt for spiders in the bathtub. The sprightly arachnids were densely covered in a fine black fur with beady, patent eyes. Their clever, nimble movements always got the best of our drowsy bashful attempts of capture. The more the jumping beans paraded around the scuffed tiles, the heavier the downpour of simmering saccharine soup fell upon us.

         The deep perfume would lift our bodies and take us as hostages towards the baking beauty. When we returned the swelling sea of crisping crust, caramelizing sugar, and the warm, tangy broth pounded on the oven’s opaque peephole, dripping what it could from the leaky hinges to our antsy noses. The latch heaved in discomfort and the wait was over.