~Apple Pie Therapy—apple-pie (ap′əl pī′) adjective: The treatment of infection, mourning, or some sort of disorder that relieves tension and insanity as by rehabilitation with apples, cinnamon, sweet butter, flour, sugar, and love. It helps to include a best girlfriend to bake these pies with. Warning: This therapy may save your life.
~Four words that have absolutely and indisputably pissed me off since my sister’s murder have been: “It. Will. Get. Better.”
Please suck those reckless, thoughtless words back into your mouth and keep silent until I ask for your counsel…
Unless, of course, your soul mate has been assassinated, as well. Only then will I consider listening to what you have to say. Only then, will I know you truly understand how one lives with an incomplete heart.
But I have stumbled upon certain activities to distract me in the midst of my sorrow, to divert me from my insanity.
What a relief—when one can take a break from being crazy. What a release—to become removed temporarily from one’s suffering.
For example, the day before my birthday, my girlfriend phones and says,
“Clear your day tomorrow morning. I’m teaching you how to make apple pies.”
In other words: You Will Be There.
She has the centers prepared and organized in her enormous kitchen when I arrive at 9:30 am: the apple peeling center, the crust making center, the flour, cinnamon, sugar, butter, and the measuring cups all accessible.
“How about a Margarita before we start?” She asks.
“It’s 9:30 in the morning. Are you serious?”
“Believe me, you need a Margarita. BAAAD.” She smiles.
I look at the clock. Hesitate. Feel a bit of guilt. It passes swiftly.
“Well, it is 5:30 in Kenya. Sure, why not.”
We sip slowly. We gossip voraciously. We cry because Kay should be with us. Kay would have never missed a bit of fun and folly with her best girlfriends.
We begin getting serious about apples at about 10:30.
She has one of those incredible gadgets that peels the apples, removes the core, etc… I could’ve peeled those red and green babies all day long.
Speaking of therapy; there is something quite pleasurable about watching the skin of the apple unwrap and shed its body falling to the floor.
Something revealing, comforting.
But preparing the crust is the ultimate.
Sifting the flower, cutting in Crisco, wrapping your hands around the soft pillow of dough.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” My girlfriend says. “Pound it. Push it. Press it firm. Pretend it’s the murderer.”
“Take that ASSHOLE!” I scream.
I punch the soft dough with all my might, then I take both fists, beat the dough harder and harder…
“That’s what you get you murdering, good for nothin’ BASTARD!”
“Hey, let me help,” she demands.
We both begin thumping the hell out of the dough. We begin laughing. We begin weeping.
We are exhausted.
“Oh, god, why didn’t we do something?” I scream. Why didn’t we break his legs when we had the chance; break his fingers so he couldn’t pick up a gun? How are we going to live without her?”
We sit in silence for a long time. The aroma of apples and cinnamon playing in air; Lady Antebellum blasting from the countertop.
The ticking of the clock is deafening, perpetual.
Suddenly, my girlfriend spurts out, “We still have the apple crisp to make! Get your ass up, Kimmers.”
She throws a handful of flour in my face; waits for a response.
We begin giggling until our sides hurt. We begin dancing and twirling to Antebellum’s “Need You Now.”
Sometimes all you need is a good girlfriend, a sugary strawberry margarita, and love, love, love.
Sometimes all you need is the interruption of apples and cinnamon to survive–One. More. Day.