Most mornings I’ll wake at first light and sit in my corner chair with coffee and journal. The words that find their way to paper flow like ribbons from a spool. I don’t make these words, I barely write them. They unwind and flow of their own volition it seems, perhaps falling from the last pages of my dreams. Sometimes they inform, other times amuse, and sometimes I have no earthly explanation for what they mean or how they came to be upon my page. Yesterday was such a morning. I’d been writing for maybe fifteen minutes, when out of the blue, Humble pie appeared. I asked (amused, as you can imagine), Really?! Humble pie? And Yes, was all it said. And so I laughed out loud. What would you have done? It seemed like such a reasonable response! I know, I know, but after years of companionable times with my journal, I’ve learned to listen. Writing in the mornings has uncovered much for me. When my thoughts and feelings are a jumbled mess, writing helps me sort them. It can help set me straight, show me where I’ve erred. It shines a light when I’m standing in the dark. SO even when something as silly as humble pie shows up, I say OK. Tell me more.
In this case, I took it both figuratively and literally. I suspect you’re more interested in the literal interpretation, which brings me to today’s offering: Strawberry and Rhubarb Galette.
Have you ever had a completely irrational, seemingly baseless fear? We all have, right? Well, mine has been pie. OK, absurd, I know, but I prefaced this by saying irrational. My Mom always made beautiful pies. Her crusts were never tough or soggy, but always buttery and flaky and just plain pretty. At some point, probably very early on, I told myself I could never make a pie like my Mom. And you know how it oftentimes is when you tell yourself a “lie,” you believe it instantly and go on repeating it for (oh, I hope it’s not so!) the rest of your life. SO, a couple years ago, being buoyed by little successes in unrelated areas, I vowed I would tackle the pie! I came upon a recipe for Galette, this free-form, rather rustic and charming little fruit-filled pastry. It seemed goof-proof. And I believed instantly, I can do that! And I did! And it was good! Have I conquered my fear? Not entirely, but I’m working with it. And maybe that’s all we’re called to do. Was it Maya Angelou who said, “Feel the fear, but do it anyway.” If it wasn’t she, it was someone else quite brilliant.
So this is me, being humble before you: I still have a little fear of pie. But I’m not willing to give up. Two reasons: 1) because who ever heard of being afraid of pie? and 2) berry pie is possibly my very favorite dessert and I’m a grown woman and I can’t expect my Mom to make them all for me! This humble little pie-like thing was my first attempt. Is it just possible that eating a little humble pie may be good for the soul? I think maybe so.
Love this post! And could it be any prettier?!
You may not believe this bit of surrepticiousness but here it is. For several days last week I have had two requests for you as cooking spree but I felt it would be better of me to not interrupt your flow and accept the beauty of what you are providing. The first question was about crust!!!
It’s time you conquer that fear! I’ve never seen you put your hand and heart to anything that wasn’t beautiful. I know too well what you describe as the inferiority complex known as I-could-never-make it-like-my-mom-so-I-better-not-try. Let’s get over it together! xoxo
When I return from my regular voyage to a whole other world, this predictably unrooted feeling accompanies me home. And there I find myself touching the folds of my life…attempting to regain meaning in its objects. This screen lights up and in a click I can find deep, abiding connection.
Like a devotion, like a prayer: this blog is cast out from Spree’s heart into a vast ocean of internet castings. For me, it is has roots that hold steady when the waves wash by. It has unflinching spine and the tenderest, reaching palms. I sigh. I partake. And feel the lightness sparkle me with soft electrics, with endless depths…It reminds me that this realm is full of connections clamoring to be met. But there is no clamor here. And blogs aren’t always what they appear to be.
Dear dear Spree: If I keep showing up…and, if I meet your opening with my own…and, if I truly perceive…I can see that I’m transformed here. My questions and worries go tumbling. The world re-shimmers. Breath cascades in the body. This humming, EMF-producing machine serves a dish of lasting nourishment that leaves me Well-fed. Often overflowing. It’s an offering of Dawnberry Humble Pie.