Cleaning Up the Stains

“If you live in regret, you’ll regret it.”  —Anonymous

It’s Sunday again, that lovely day that I look forward to all week.  I look forward to my trip to the coffee shop—not just the coffee, but the shop with its warm, deep coffee smell that hangs in my hair and coat for hours, and the hope of possibility that I’ll meet an interesting man or just have a fun interaction with someone there.  I usually do.  Even the walk past the park, chatting with the squirrels and wagging my tail at oncoming dogs, that’s all worth the week long wait.  And then to top it all off, I get to come on home to my peaceful solitude where crying toddlers and ungrateful adolescents are merely echoes. 

On my way home this morning, I passed a mother unloading her crying child from their car.  She was yelling, “Hunter, I have your coat!  Now stop crying!”  My first thought was, of course, judgmental: “You don’t have to yell at him.  Poor kid.”  But as you know, I recognize a pointing finger and its boomerang effect, so I let go of my judgment and turned to my own past tyrannical episodes.  One, I’m about to confess to you, borders on a call to call DCFS.

Casey was in second grade, Riley in fourth.  I’d worked most of the morning and part of the afternoon making a beautiful blackberry pie for a summer potluck.  As usual, I was running behind (the best laid plans of mice and mothers, I always said) so I was rushing and impatient.  The pie was beautiful when I pulled it out: the rich, deep blackberry juice bubbling up through the browned lattice crust.  Perfect.  I ordered the kids to get into the car more than a hundred times, no time to change out of my floured shirt or fix my hair (an egg beater might have done the trick). I grabbed the pie with two pot holders and glowing pride and headed for the car, imagining all the oohs and ahs I’d get from all my party friends.  Carefully I set it on top of the car, opened the door and lowered myself and the pie into the car.  I placed my pride and joy on top of Casey’s lap. She shrieked and flipped the pie onto the floor. 

Did you see that coming?  I didn’t see that coming.  I don’t remember what I yelled, just that I yelled.  Loudly.  Longly.  My poor little girl, for whom I would have felt so much pity had I been a fifty-five year old passerby on her way home to her peaceful solitude, cried and yelled and rubbed her red thighs. 

Twelve or so years later, the blackberry stains are gone, but I worry that my poor little girl who I know now is my real pride and joy, carries the red hot anger in her.  I regret that my priorities were so misplaced and my needs for praise got in the way of my children’s needs at time.  I feel sad when I visit regrets of the past.  I know I can’t change them.  I also know I did the best I could with what I had at the time. 

The good news is I can "look back without staring" and every day is chance to do it better. Now that loving friendships have replaced the isolation I experienced back then, I have more self-worth, a lot more peace, and a bit more wisdom.  I can visit those regrets with my kids and express my remorse and the sympathy I didn’t express then.  I can give them now what I should have given them when I didn’t have it to give. 

I have another confession.  When I cleaned up the car floor, I tasted some of the pie.  It was really sour.  Instead of oohs and ahs, I would have seen sour pusses and forks softly set down at the party.  Maybe Casey was my savior that day.

More good news!  My favorite market has organic blackberries on sale this week.  Think I’ll call Casey and invite her over for a cool compress for whatever ails her and some sweeter blackberry pie.

 

Blackberry Pie

Pie Crust

2 c. flour

1 ½ t. salt

1/2 c. vegetable oil

5 t. cold water

Sift flower and salt in a bowl and hollow out a crater in the middle.  Pour oil and water all together and fold flour into the liquid.  Stop before it’s all mixed or it will get tough.  Form into two balls, one a little smaller than the other.  Roll out the larger ball between two sheets of waxed paper from the middle out.  Save the smaller ball for the lattice top.

4 ½ c. blackberries rinsed and drained

¾ c. of sugar (if your blackberries are on the sour side, add another ¼ c. or so.)

2 T. flour

2 T. unsalted butter

Combine and gently mix first three ingredients.  Spoon into pie crust and dot with butter.  Now comes the fun part: Roll out your smaller dough ball like the first one.  If you don’t have a serrated pastry cutter, you can use a hand saw so the strips have jagged edges.  I suggest you clean it first!  Cut dough into half inch strips and attach them at one end to the bottom crust by folding them under.  Set them parallel with about a half inch between them and loosely roll them back on the counter so you can weave perpendicularly (or at a slant) the remaining strips.  Start the same way for the strips running perpendicularly to the first strips.  This takes more time than you think.  I’m just warning you.  Weave (that means one under, one up, etc.), working your way across the pie.

Bake at 400 degrees for 25 minutes or until your crust is golden and the juice is bubbling up over the lattice.  Let it cool before placing on anyone’s lap.