Back when I was a scrappy little ne'erdowell around the neighborhood, I would run around gathering dirt and grass and leaves and junk into a little plastic bucket I stole out of Greta Turtleburgher's back yard. I'd carry this bucket home and put it to the hose. Really fill it up. Make it all sortsa muddy and goopy. Once I had my muddy goop, my dough, I'd sneak into the kitchen and steal my grandma's best nonstick man and fill it with my dough. Once it was ready I'd set it in the oven, and because I was like eleven, I had no idea how ovens worked or how temperature worked, so I put the slop in the oven at 500 degrees. I knew cooking took a while, so I wouldn't set a timer. It was best to forget about it and come back once the smell reminded me it existed. When it did, I'd pull it out and slam the black and crusted pie on the table and serve it onto a plate.
Usually this would be about the time grandma would come out to check on me. I'd jump up and down and tell her I made pie, and she'd be delighted. Always so happy to see her little baker at work. I'd cut her up a slice.
She wasn't all there at that point in life, so she'd eat a slice. Then another. Then another. She'd keep going until all the dried and crusted mud was gone from the table. I haven't met another person on this planet willing to do something like that for me. I haven't felt truly loved since.
