A Pie Recipe
1.
I’m still not as old
as you, but I know
things now. Know what Old
Bay seasoning is now that I cook
for myself, understand
your agenda for salted
butter over the plain kind.
The salt, dissolved for you
makes all the difference.
2.
Today they had a pie contest
at the plaza. I know
you’d have loved it, loved
the care pastry demands.
To cut cool butter into
flour, gather the ragged
shreds of newborn
dough with tender touch
births a flakey crust
that still gives
to the fork. Too warm
and the butter dissolves.
The crust becomes
dense
and crumbling.
3.
My first time
making it was July.
Too hot. The crumbs still
live in the kitchen
corner. I didn’t have it
in me to clean
them up. Too bad.
4.
You know you can
come over anytime.
Please.
You won’t even have to leave
three missed calls
before I pick
up. We can make
pie but I’ll handle
the dough, I know
your palms run hot.
You’ll brew the tea
like you used to.
I tolerate caffeine
now, so no more lemon
balm. I want the hard stuff,
matcha. I want
to drink the crushed
leaves whole. I want
The kettle to sing on
And on and on.
Emily Chang would like to be in love and wonders if writing about it will ever be close enough to the real thing. She’s from Los Angeles and currently lives in France. Her poem “In New York, I call my mother who is living” was published in HAD Journal.