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We are enveloped in the cloud of flour I can hardly see the
tip of my nose. The knee-deep drifts have moved out of the kitchen and spread through
the rest of the house, some spilling into the sidewalk and the driveway. Dad is on the phone with a NSA agent, trying
to explain that it’s only his wife teaching his daughter-in-law how to make a
pie. That’s all. No international conspiracy.
No subversive activities aimed at creating artificial shortages and price
gouging.
In the midst of the chaos, my mother-in-law doesn’t seem to be phased at all by the colossal
mess we created. In fact, she appears to
be completely deaf and blind to it. This is very strange, because anyone who
knows her is fully aware of her impeccable housekeeping habits. Polished silver, glistening crystal, the
works.
As I look at her through the
thick flour fog, a thought suddenly occurs to me, something I never thought of
before. The thought is so preposterous, I
dismiss it right away. And yet, I can’t
get rid of it… the harder I try, the faster it comes back to me.
What if… what if this is
not about… making the pie… at all? What if the whole point is...?
I think we are finally getting
somewhere, she wipes the flour off her face with her elbow, beaming.
But from the way she said it I am not quite
sure if she is referring to the dough in my hands or she just read my mind.
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