|On the left is a standard 9" pan; on the right is one of my 6" pans|
On the 4th day of National Poetry Month, I posted one of my own. My 60th birthday, a milestone I never anticipated reaching, had been the day before. We don't make a big deal about birthdays in this household. Oh, don't get me wrong—they're nice enough, we don't ignore them—but we don't go hog wild over them either. Presents, if any, tend to be small and modest. Celebrations tend to be minimal.
This year was not out of line with the usual. We went over to the house of our good friends, Mel and Mark, for a birthday brunch that Mel and Warren had planned. It was great. The rest of the day was spent doing small things around the house. That was good too.
I did get a birthday present this year. Two days before my birthday, Warren and I were out of town on a business trip and spent some time walking around the city of Medina, which boasts a restored and revitalized downtown. The local hardware store is still in business and we popped in to explore. In the basement were home goods: cookware, bakeware, utensils. And right there in front of us were pie pans: little patty pans, standard size pans, and (be still my heart) 6" pans.
I have wanted 6" pans for the last few months, ever since the aforementioned friend Mark brought over two small pies, a pecan and a sweet potato, each baked in a 6" pan. I was so taken with the little pans that I ended up writing several poems about them. So when I saw the same size pan in the hardware store, my eyes lit up. Warren, seeing the look on my face, bought two of them for my birthday. The night before the brunch, I gave the pans a test run, baking two small apple pies. These accompanied us to brunch the next morning.
At brunch, I read one of my pie poems. Mark, who is my partner in the Death and Dying Poetry Club, and his wife listened with enthusiasm, despite having read the pie poems before. Warren, who unfortunately is poetry adverse, politely suffered through the reading without too much squirming.
Here, in honor of National Poetry Month and pies everywhere, is my poem, Pie amour fu (crazy pie love):
Pie amour fu
It was the small pie pans I marveled at
Not patty pans
More half grown than that.
They had belonged to your grandmother
Or your aunts perhaps
A whole lineage of piemakers.
I would ponder that later.
But their size!
I want to cradle them in my arms
Croon to them
Dance a pie dance with them turning round and round
Then tuck them into a little bed whispering “sweet dreams” and “sleep tight.”
I want to bake a thousand small pies
And pass them out to strangers on the street.