Michael picked up the phone after two rings. No maybe it was after five. No maybe it was after Nora called, and called, and called until she wanted her phone to shatter the cheap vase that housed a dozen lemons. She couldn't quite remember because as soon as she heard his voice, it all started up again.
Just breathe, he says, and Nora sucks in a lungful of air-conditioned air that's like a sterile swab across her inner tissue. I just don't know, she pants, I don't get it. And Michael seems to be pacing somewhere in Philadelphia; Nora can almost hear his body shuffling across the floor; she can see him as he scrunches his brow.
I'll come back now, he offers. I can catch a flight tomorrow, no problem. And Nora nods, her head moves up and down, and she finally lets herself sink into the couch, the one with the buttons that collect all of the lint and popcorn kernels that spill out of her bowl.
You should have this, her mother told her when she was going through furniture from her own mother's house. The two of them had nestled up against each other, Nora resting her head on her mother's shoulder because grief made you tired like that, made you want to just edge up against something real. And so they had loaded that couch onto a flatbed truck and had hoisted it up that one flight of stairs and had placed it in the middle of Nora's living room (which still smelled like cat urine, after all these years).
The letter from her mother told them nothing more. Nothing more than she was gone. Over the course of five years, their mother had shrunk into some creature unlike the warm and bubbling woman that once held their hands as they walked from bookstore to ice cream shop to the place where the bats dived in the sky. Over the course of five years their mother became someone who just might. A person who just might decide to pack up, to leave her house and her sparse belongings, to leave her children with notes and a promise that she would eventually write.
Nora picks out a kernel from one of the corner button holes and she bites down, hard, until her teeth begin to ache from the pressure. It's time now, she thinks, and begins turning back, one vertebrae twisting at a time. She will walk down the paths her mother once travelled, like any girl following crumbs in a fairytale (but without the blond pigtails and the dress and the petticoat). Her brother, here tomorrow. Tonight, her and her memories. She bites down and the kernel snaps.
Just breathe, he says, and Nora sucks in a lungful of air-conditioned air that's like a sterile swab across her inner tissue. I just don't know, she pants, I don't get it. And Michael seems to be pacing somewhere in Philadelphia; Nora can almost hear his body shuffling across the floor; she can see him as he scrunches his brow.
I'll come back now, he offers. I can catch a flight tomorrow, no problem. And Nora nods, her head moves up and down, and she finally lets herself sink into the couch, the one with the buttons that collect all of the lint and popcorn kernels that spill out of her bowl.
You should have this, her mother told her when she was going through furniture from her own mother's house. The two of them had nestled up against each other, Nora resting her head on her mother's shoulder because grief made you tired like that, made you want to just edge up against something real. And so they had loaded that couch onto a flatbed truck and had hoisted it up that one flight of stairs and had placed it in the middle of Nora's living room (which still smelled like cat urine, after all these years).
The letter from her mother told them nothing more. Nothing more than she was gone. Over the course of five years, their mother had shrunk into some creature unlike the warm and bubbling woman that once held their hands as they walked from bookstore to ice cream shop to the place where the bats dived in the sky. Over the course of five years their mother became someone who just might. A person who just might decide to pack up, to leave her house and her sparse belongings, to leave her children with notes and a promise that she would eventually write.
Nora picks out a kernel from one of the corner button holes and she bites down, hard, until her teeth begin to ache from the pressure. It's time now, she thinks, and begins turning back, one vertebrae twisting at a time. She will walk down the paths her mother once travelled, like any girl following crumbs in a fairytale (but without the blond pigtails and the dress and the petticoat). Her brother, here tomorrow. Tonight, her and her memories. She bites down and the kernel snaps.
So these delightful tarts were born when I discovered I had a bit of empanada dough still resting in my refrigerator. When you make empanadas (which all of you should), you should be certain to leave a bit of dough aside. Then, when you are in the mood for something sweet, you can quickly chop up some fresh fruit, drizzle a little honey and shape your dough into a petite rustic tart.
These tarts served as a perfect after dinner dessert. The whole wheat dough was an ideal compliment to the naturally sweetened and spiced apples. A handful of raisins and some chopped ginger completed my simple creation.
I'm not going to give you a detailed recipe because the beauty of this dessert is that it is meant to be made on the fly, with what you have on hand, with what you prefer. For some that might be apples, for others, fresh berries. A cream cheese mixture would also be delicious.
To provide you with a frame of reference, I began with a bit of empanada dough (any pastry dough would work equally as well). I cut out a 6 inch round which I then placed on a cookie sheet in the freezer while I prepared my filling. In a saucepan over medium heat, I sauteed one diced apple in just a dab of butter with a tablespoon of honey drizzled on top and a dash or two of cinnamon for extra spice. Stirring the apple mixture for only 5-10 minutes, I then proceeded to spoon my filling into my round and then work the sides up to form a small tart. I sprinkled some chopped nuts on top and baked my creations in a preheated 400 degree oven for 10-15 minutes.
So I hope you enjoyed Nora, the pictures and an idea for a simple summer or fall dessert. As always, thank you for your generosity and open hearts.
Always,
Monet
Anecdotes and Apple Cores
These tarts served as a perfect after dinner dessert. The whole wheat dough was an ideal compliment to the naturally sweetened and spiced apples. A handful of raisins and some chopped ginger completed my simple creation.
I'm not going to give you a detailed recipe because the beauty of this dessert is that it is meant to be made on the fly, with what you have on hand, with what you prefer. For some that might be apples, for others, fresh berries. A cream cheese mixture would also be delicious.
To provide you with a frame of reference, I began with a bit of empanada dough (any pastry dough would work equally as well). I cut out a 6 inch round which I then placed on a cookie sheet in the freezer while I prepared my filling. In a saucepan over medium heat, I sauteed one diced apple in just a dab of butter with a tablespoon of honey drizzled on top and a dash or two of cinnamon for extra spice. Stirring the apple mixture for only 5-10 minutes, I then proceeded to spoon my filling into my round and then work the sides up to form a small tart. I sprinkled some chopped nuts on top and baked my creations in a preheated 400 degree oven for 10-15 minutes.
So I hope you enjoyed Nora, the pictures and an idea for a simple summer or fall dessert. As always, thank you for your generosity and open hearts.
Always,
Monet
Anecdotes and Apple Cores
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