My friend asked me why I had stopped baking my pies. She asked to come over so we could bake together. We used her grandmother’s recipe. She showed me how to basket weave the crust, her hands moving effortlessly, lifting the layers into artful perfection.
Why did I stop?
It wasn’t good enough.
My friend laughed and told me my pies were the best pies she had ever tasted.
I was ready to go back.
I made a pie.
My daughter peeled apples and brushed egg on the crust while we cut and laced the crust. It was a blast. If we messed up, we laughed. The pig snuffled underfoot licking up flour and butter that dropped to the floor. The house smelled of apples and cinnamon.
I ate pie and looked at my kids chasing the pig around the kitchen. There is an obvious lesson there.
So last night I sent out an article I wrote. It wasn’t perfect, but I sent it out.
Then I ate a piece of pie.
The article was accepted.