Come on– admit it. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? You’ve toyed with the idea of removing the sash from your fuzzy bathrobe in the middle of the night, wrapping it around your husband’s neck while he gently sleeps, and voilà! No more snoring. No more bed-hogging. Then you remember that not only is it wrong, but you really don’t have enough money to fund a fugitive life in Brazil. Neither do I.
But every now and then, my husband does or says something that sends me over the wall. And just as I’m reaching for the nine-inch AllClad frying pan, my little voice pipes up and reminds me why I married him. Lucky for him. I haven’t yet tallied up all the reasons I said, “I do,” because there are just too many to count. But my list of reasons why “I might” is etched upon my brain like a Dürer masterpiece. Here are a few choice selections:
1. Because I can. It’s the last thing he’d ever expect me to do. Besides, thanks to his volcanic snoring, I’m an insomniac bitch. I could just plead insanity, right?
2. He snores. If I could add up the number of sheep I’ve lost count of due to his Richter scale snoring, well, Bo Peep would have my hide. Trust me.
3. Occasionally I dream about being single again. Of course, my particular fantasy is trapped in the early 1990s when I was still young, not bad looking, and had a waistline. Now that I’m over 40, no matter how much I work out and how little I eat, my girth doesn’t go anywhere. It just lingers like the houseguest from hell, laughing its fatty little ass off at me “Go ahead, sucker, do another 5,000 sit-ups. It doesn’t matter. I’m never leaving!” But I digress…
4. He says I complain too much. According to my loving spouse, I’m a chronic malcontent; I’ve elevated complaining to an Olympic event, and I’m the gold medalist. Why not, I ask? There is SO much to whine about – money, secessionists, recessionists, money, revisionists, divisionists, religious fanatics, tea drinkers, tea dumpers, money, baristas, terroristas, fashionistas – what the hell, all the istas…ad infinitum, nauseam and hominem. Besides, I’m an ace complainer, and my daddy always said I should capitalize on my talent. Good thing it wasn’t tightrope walking or titty dancing, huh?
5. He works at home a little too often. The man has an office – why doesn’t he USE it? If I had a place to hang my laptop, I’d be there faster than you can say, “See ya!” But he’d rather hijack all the downstairs public space and spread his crap everywhere. The thing is, our home is my office, and I want to work, read, do research, even eat lunch, all by myself. In silence. Is that so much to ask?
6. There’s always “one more thing.” I’m usually three-quarters of the way upstairs, or naked and turning on the shower, or just sitting down at the computer with a great idea in my head, when I hear the telltale “Sweetie, do you have a second?” chasing me down, and I have to come stomping back down because I can’t seem to hear two flights up anymore. It’s like being trapped in a never-ending episode of “Columbo.”
7. He doesn’t think we need a cleaning lady. To which I say, really? Think not? Maybe it’s because he never cleans anything, except his teeth. One day of cleaning toilets, vacuuming and dusting will change his mind. Guaranteed.
8. He doesn’t get cold. So he keeps the thermostat in polar bear territory. Our house is so cold I have to wear a granny shawl and gloves when I’m not moving around. And even with a space heater, my office feels as frigid as International Falls, Minnesota. Can anyone think of a better reason to strangle him?
9. He spills. Nearly every article of clothing he owns sports some kind of stain on it. It’s like an itinerary of his activities: a splash of red wine from the Christmas Eve party, a grease spot from Friday night pizza, a dab of soy sauce from a gyoza that missed its mark, dark black lines from an unknown garden tool. I could live with it, really, if only his proclivity for getting dirty hadn’t, in a nasty twist of genetic backstabbery, been passed on to my younger son. Now I live with two Pig-Pens. I probably deserve it.
10. He’s accident prone. This one’s a no-brainer. Since we’ve been together, he has broken his ankle (surgery), his toe (the same one three times), a mysterious little bone – the hamate – in both hands (one surgery so far) because he tripped while jogging, and required hospitalization in a foreign country for a systemic invasion of poison ivy. Need I go on?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not sitting around all day thinking of a way to pop my husband’s cork. It’s only when he pisses me off, or wakes me up in the middle of night, damages another part of his body, or calls me on something and I know he’s right (which pisses me off even more). The rest of the time, I am largely content, if not besotted in that mid-life kind of way, and wondering where he keeps his own list. I’d just love to get a look at it.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
No More Pajama Party
For years, I pitied my friends who worked in an office. They had to get up earlier than I did, shower, dress presentably – if not in a power suit – and get out the door with enough coherence to last the entire day, or at least until they could come home and shed the office costume. Now, thanks to Skype, I’m feeling sorry for myself, too.
Not only has the whole workplace dress-up-or-down, Casual Fridays, dress-to-express revolution made going to work a lot more comfortable for many of us (unless you work in a law firm – and then, well, what can I say?), but the advent of webcams and Skype technology has also made it so I really can’t go to work looking like I just rolled out of bed – even if I have.
Of course, I can do what I want. I work at home, I have an office with all the technological bells and whistles, and I make my own schedule. In theory, total freedom. Except when one of my editors decides, on a whim, that nine o’clock is the perfect time for a face-to-face. Do I really want to chance getting caught in my fuzzy blue-fleece bathrobe with sheep all over it, dried drool in the corner of my mouth and sleep still in my eyes? Not really.
And there’s the rub. It used to be that pajamas and pillow hair were fine. More than fine. They were a badge of honor. They were a telecommuter’s way of saying, “See, I can look like doo-doo, work in my jammies and still be as productive as the woman in the cubicle wearing a sleek pantsuit from Ann Taylor with a Bluetooth hanging from her ear like a Jane Jetson accessory.” Now, sadly, it’s makeup and stain-free clothes all over again. As my work-at-home friend, Sue, puts it, “We may as well be going to a goddamn ball.”
But messing with my right to dress like a slob isn’t the only disaster Skype has wrought. A few weeks ago, my mother – who has also discovered the wonders of video calls – decided to reach out and touch someone. Namely me. Skype called, I answered, and there was my mother, leaning so far into her computer screen that I was sure her head was going to pop out on the other side and get right up in my face. She’s leaning and squinting; I’m cranky and suffering from post-traumatic holiday disorder. And then she cocks her head and says, “Oh my God, you look like hell!”
So long, yoga jammies. Hello, Bobbi Brown…
Not only has the whole workplace dress-up-or-down, Casual Fridays, dress-to-express revolution made going to work a lot more comfortable for many of us (unless you work in a law firm – and then, well, what can I say?), but the advent of webcams and Skype technology has also made it so I really can’t go to work looking like I just rolled out of bed – even if I have.
Of course, I can do what I want. I work at home, I have an office with all the technological bells and whistles, and I make my own schedule. In theory, total freedom. Except when one of my editors decides, on a whim, that nine o’clock is the perfect time for a face-to-face. Do I really want to chance getting caught in my fuzzy blue-fleece bathrobe with sheep all over it, dried drool in the corner of my mouth and sleep still in my eyes? Not really.
And there’s the rub. It used to be that pajamas and pillow hair were fine. More than fine. They were a badge of honor. They were a telecommuter’s way of saying, “See, I can look like doo-doo, work in my jammies and still be as productive as the woman in the cubicle wearing a sleek pantsuit from Ann Taylor with a Bluetooth hanging from her ear like a Jane Jetson accessory.” Now, sadly, it’s makeup and stain-free clothes all over again. As my work-at-home friend, Sue, puts it, “We may as well be going to a goddamn ball.”
But messing with my right to dress like a slob isn’t the only disaster Skype has wrought. A few weeks ago, my mother – who has also discovered the wonders of video calls – decided to reach out and touch someone. Namely me. Skype called, I answered, and there was my mother, leaning so far into her computer screen that I was sure her head was going to pop out on the other side and get right up in my face. She’s leaning and squinting; I’m cranky and suffering from post-traumatic holiday disorder. And then she cocks her head and says, “Oh my God, you look like hell!”
So long, yoga jammies. Hello, Bobbi Brown…
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Ode to Mom Jeans
Oh tragic trousers, too much maligned,
it seems that you’re not properly designed
to please the uber-fashionista crowd,
that bunch of vapid, under-endowed
stick figures who suffer for their look,
who’d rather starve and swoon than cook,
who order drinks with, please, no cubes
and don’t mind showing off their pubes,
which creep over their low-cut pants
like some invasive garden plant.
Oh roomy jeans, they fit just right,
they keep my love handles out of sight
I love the give, I love the take
the stretch of elastic around my waist.
So they make my butt look flat --
hello! something wrong with that?
look, most moms are busy and harassed,
no time to keep up with fashions vast,
hip and trendy – Give us comfy, give us quick,
machine-washable and non-stick.
Oh mom couture, we want you back,
we’re sick and tired of wearing black
of pouring our veteran bodies into clothes
as uncomfortable as pantyhose.
It’s time to claim our mom couture,
to prove that comfort and allure
aren’t mutually exclusive concepts
in a mother’s wardrobe; she who schleps,
carpools, cooks, works and…screams…
deserves a break. And so it seems
that more of us should come clean
about how sometimes we lust for mom jeans.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Unbearable Downwardness of Gravity
Word has it that Nora Ephron has been feeling bad about her neck lately. All I have to say is, “Boo-hoo.” I saw a picture of her in a New Yorker article over the summer, and if the state of her neck is her biggest beef, I’ll trade places with her tomorrow. I want to IM her a mouthful or two of invective, write her a tsk-tsk email with pissed-off emoticons pasted all over it. How dare this stunning, successful woman, who at sixty-something looks like she’s still got the world by the you-know-whatsits, complain about her neck? She should come over for coffee and get a gander at the kind of indignity that gravity and middle-age can inflict on an unsuspecting schmuck like me.
I blame gravity for just about every physical inconvenience I’ve suffered since having kids; every embarrassment (ever farted during yoga class despite your tightest tight-ass efforts?); every shift in my weight or mood. Pregnancy and childbirth may have contributed some here and there, but gravity is the real bad guy. It sneaks up and shoves us down the hill, when we’d rather stroll and enjoy the view. My body’s battle with Public Enemy Number One began around my 40th birthday. I knew something was up when, one night, my husband and I were out to dinner, and I couldn’t read the menu. The letters were too small, I said. Did they really expect people to be able to decipher microscopic print by candlelight? My husband, who is as blind as Mr. Magoo, rolled his eyes at me, held up his menu across the table and said, “Read this.” I rattled off every dish like a pro. Turned out the problem wasn’t the menu, it was my arm. Not long enough.
What did gravity have to do with my nascent far-sightedness? Something, I was sure. It was probably tugging on my tired, overworked eye muscles. Anyway, I broke down and got half-moons with bumblebee frames. Granny glasses, I moaned. No, no, said a male friend of mine. Sexy glasses. Librarian-sexy. The kind of specs that you fling across the room when you take the pins out of your luxurious, swirling mane of chestnut hair. Right. I learned to keep the glasses hidden, but handy. If only glasses were the worst of it…
A year later, I was looking in the mirror and saw that one breast was lower than the other. Way lower. Wait, they were BOTH lower. My once perky girls looked more like a pair of war-weary veterans. They weren’t just sagging; they were further south than Miami. What’s worse, after showering I had to lift each one up and dry underneath. Still do. If I don’t, I am sure mold would probably start growing there. Now every day brings a new discovery of droop somewhere on my body. My butt cheeks are distinctly more oblong than round, and I’ve recently noticed a slight, insidious overhang around my jaw line. Not extra flesh, just flesh stretching downward, reaching for the ground despite itself, unable to resist the siren call of gravity. What’s next? Wattles where my triceps used to be? Liver spots? Crow’s feet? Knees without caps? Saggy eyelids? Longer hair?
Maybe I’ll just email Nora Ephron and get her personal trainer’s number.
I blame gravity for just about every physical inconvenience I’ve suffered since having kids; every embarrassment (ever farted during yoga class despite your tightest tight-ass efforts?); every shift in my weight or mood. Pregnancy and childbirth may have contributed some here and there, but gravity is the real bad guy. It sneaks up and shoves us down the hill, when we’d rather stroll and enjoy the view. My body’s battle with Public Enemy Number One began around my 40th birthday. I knew something was up when, one night, my husband and I were out to dinner, and I couldn’t read the menu. The letters were too small, I said. Did they really expect people to be able to decipher microscopic print by candlelight? My husband, who is as blind as Mr. Magoo, rolled his eyes at me, held up his menu across the table and said, “Read this.” I rattled off every dish like a pro. Turned out the problem wasn’t the menu, it was my arm. Not long enough.
What did gravity have to do with my nascent far-sightedness? Something, I was sure. It was probably tugging on my tired, overworked eye muscles. Anyway, I broke down and got half-moons with bumblebee frames. Granny glasses, I moaned. No, no, said a male friend of mine. Sexy glasses. Librarian-sexy. The kind of specs that you fling across the room when you take the pins out of your luxurious, swirling mane of chestnut hair. Right. I learned to keep the glasses hidden, but handy. If only glasses were the worst of it…
A year later, I was looking in the mirror and saw that one breast was lower than the other. Way lower. Wait, they were BOTH lower. My once perky girls looked more like a pair of war-weary veterans. They weren’t just sagging; they were further south than Miami. What’s worse, after showering I had to lift each one up and dry underneath. Still do. If I don’t, I am sure mold would probably start growing there. Now every day brings a new discovery of droop somewhere on my body. My butt cheeks are distinctly more oblong than round, and I’ve recently noticed a slight, insidious overhang around my jaw line. Not extra flesh, just flesh stretching downward, reaching for the ground despite itself, unable to resist the siren call of gravity. What’s next? Wattles where my triceps used to be? Liver spots? Crow’s feet? Knees without caps? Saggy eyelids? Longer hair?
Maybe I’ll just email Nora Ephron and get her personal trainer’s number.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Who Stole My Mojo?
It’s official. I’m torching the mom jeans and sensible clogs, trading in my solids for Pucci-inspired prints, coloring my hair and hitting the road with My Morning Jacket (well, hitting the carpool line in my minivan, with My Morning Jacket at volume 40). What has inspired this midlife identity meltdown? My much-loved mojo is MIA, and I want it back.
It all started with a birthday party. My cousin was turning 50. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t even say it aloud without breaking into a peri-menopausal sweat. Just a few years ago, 50 was a distant land that others visited; it sounded so old, so foreign, so AARP. Then suddenly, WHAMMO! It’s breathing down my neck, no matter how fast I run.
So Cousin Marge the jewelry designer was trumpeting the arrival of her 50th year, kicking and screaming, with a girls’ throwdown in Manhattan, a family-only sleepover at Cousin Mary’s West Side swankienda (she’s single, well-heeled, successful, driven and gorgeous – want to slap her, don’t you?) Needless to say, I packed in black, from my underpants and bra to the raincoat and shirt I wore on the train from Philadelphia, even my purse and shoes. This provincial soccer mom was going to New York disguised as a Sicilian widow.
The slumber party kicked off with a mid-afternoon fashion show. Cousin Marge showed off some supremely chic trinkets she’d bought at some fabulous online boutique; Cousin Mary modeled a pair of boots that could have paid our mortgage for a couple of months; and Cousin Carol, who is 46 and has three boys, just stood around, all five feet, nine inches of her, looking incredibly young, blonde and glamorous in her biker boots from Nordstrom. It was downhill from there. A glass of wine, and we were off to Bloomingdale’s, where the blue jeans cost more than a plane ticket to Los Angeles, and all the clothes are made for waifs and wraiths, not for women with curves and boobs and short waists. They pestered me to try things on (forget the price tag! try it on for fun!), but I was unmoved. The tops were too sheer, the sweaters too tight, the shoes too high, and the pants – well, let’s just say that they were low-cut enough for my belly to spill over the edge, like laundry on a clothesline.
At some point, I looked at them and said, “What I really need is a pair of loafers.” Who knew that was such a conversation stopper? You’d have thought I’d just farted in front of the Queen. After some knowing glances and an awkward pause, Cousin Carol patted me on the arm, eyeballed my Gap jeans, and said in a low voice, “Honey, you’ve just lost your mojo. We can take care of that.” Cousin Marge nodded, “You’re in mom mode, sweetie. It’ll change. Don’t worry.”
Wait a minute, I thought. They’re moms, too. But Cousin Marge looks 35, not 50, Cousin Mary has no kids to chase after and a wardrobe worth killing for, and Cousin Carol, well, I’m convinced she’s has a sinister self-portrait hidden in the attic of her Boston home. Somehow they have all persuaded their mojo to hang around, while mine has hung me out to dry. Power, charisma, sex appeal, spells, personal magnetism – according to dictionary.com, these are the definitions of mojo. And apparently, I’m all out of it. Next time I’m at Target, I’ll see if they have any in stock.
It all started with a birthday party. My cousin was turning 50. I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t even say it aloud without breaking into a peri-menopausal sweat. Just a few years ago, 50 was a distant land that others visited; it sounded so old, so foreign, so AARP. Then suddenly, WHAMMO! It’s breathing down my neck, no matter how fast I run.
So Cousin Marge the jewelry designer was trumpeting the arrival of her 50th year, kicking and screaming, with a girls’ throwdown in Manhattan, a family-only sleepover at Cousin Mary’s West Side swankienda (she’s single, well-heeled, successful, driven and gorgeous – want to slap her, don’t you?) Needless to say, I packed in black, from my underpants and bra to the raincoat and shirt I wore on the train from Philadelphia, even my purse and shoes. This provincial soccer mom was going to New York disguised as a Sicilian widow.
The slumber party kicked off with a mid-afternoon fashion show. Cousin Marge showed off some supremely chic trinkets she’d bought at some fabulous online boutique; Cousin Mary modeled a pair of boots that could have paid our mortgage for a couple of months; and Cousin Carol, who is 46 and has three boys, just stood around, all five feet, nine inches of her, looking incredibly young, blonde and glamorous in her biker boots from Nordstrom. It was downhill from there. A glass of wine, and we were off to Bloomingdale’s, where the blue jeans cost more than a plane ticket to Los Angeles, and all the clothes are made for waifs and wraiths, not for women with curves and boobs and short waists. They pestered me to try things on (forget the price tag! try it on for fun!), but I was unmoved. The tops were too sheer, the sweaters too tight, the shoes too high, and the pants – well, let’s just say that they were low-cut enough for my belly to spill over the edge, like laundry on a clothesline.
At some point, I looked at them and said, “What I really need is a pair of loafers.” Who knew that was such a conversation stopper? You’d have thought I’d just farted in front of the Queen. After some knowing glances and an awkward pause, Cousin Carol patted me on the arm, eyeballed my Gap jeans, and said in a low voice, “Honey, you’ve just lost your mojo. We can take care of that.” Cousin Marge nodded, “You’re in mom mode, sweetie. It’ll change. Don’t worry.”
Wait a minute, I thought. They’re moms, too. But Cousin Marge looks 35, not 50, Cousin Mary has no kids to chase after and a wardrobe worth killing for, and Cousin Carol, well, I’m convinced she’s has a sinister self-portrait hidden in the attic of her Boston home. Somehow they have all persuaded their mojo to hang around, while mine has hung me out to dry. Power, charisma, sex appeal, spells, personal magnetism – according to dictionary.com, these are the definitions of mojo. And apparently, I’m all out of it. Next time I’m at Target, I’ll see if they have any in stock.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Dancing with Fidel
(I am currently working on a collection of poems about tyrants and the women who love them. This poem is the title poem of the group. Can you guess who it's about? (besides Fidel Castro) Know who the woman is? If so, email me. Good luck!)
A dance at the country club in 1953, a chance
brushing of elbows, the clink of cut crystal,
a slick, slinky mambo and some Benny Moré,
an affair studded with surgeons, lawyers
and políticos, it all sends her sprawling
down the treacherous incline of lust, a fall
from which there’s no getting back up.
On the ballroom floor, a meeting of green
eyes the color of the sea just beyond the breakers
and an educated peasant’s chin, a promontory
carpeted so long in tight, dark pubic curls
that no one remembers the Kirk Douglas cleft
or the scar etched into his jaw when he was eleven,
a bastard son’s souvenir from his father’s left hook
and a sharp silver ring.
The eyes and the chin swish and sway
through the crowd, past the martinis, the gimlets,
the rum cocktails, the filmy bubbles of gossip
that pop and blow on the wind of conversation.
All it takes is the dull repetition of days
and nights for a doctor’s young, elastic wife to stray
from the infinite languid line she walks between
who she is and what she wants.
She’s hooked from the first moment
he reaches out and reels her in, a luscious, desperate
fish on a short line, from the first dip when the floor
brushes past – and misses – her careful coiffure.
She craves his difference, his certainty, his fugitive
status; she crumples when the police arrive,
and he disappears.
For two years they write, the bastard and the socialite,
with a devotion the Brownings would admire. He by
matchlight from a solitary cell, with only cucarachas
for company, and she, between engagements, from her
beachfront mansion, which she knows is just a cloister
of another kind.
The letters tempt and persuade; they promise everything.
Their words leap off fine linen stationery, rolling paper,
ad pages furtively ripped from the occasional magazine;
they tighten around her throat like a noose until she can’t
swallow or breathe, they surround his balls and squeeze
him to the floor in one long groan of enchanted agony.
This is love, this startling pain, this intangible brew of untested chemistry.
When he arrives at her door one afternoon, it’s as though
she has been waiting for him, pacing the widow’s walk high
above the street, casting an eye for a light, a signal, any sign of life.
He nourishes her neglected body, French in his attention to detail
but Latin in his impassioned humping and thumping,
in the way he growls out her name over and over.
Before he leaves, before her husband returns
she gives him money and a key to the front door, whispers
that she’ll sell the emeralds, her wedding ring, the sapphire jewelry.
She won’t need those baubles in El Máximo’s just, new paradise.
She’s on his side of the trench now, a drummer for the cause.
© Cristina Adams 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Recession Obsession
As recessions go, this one really bites. I think about it every day, every night, in the middle of the night when I go toe-to-toe with insomnia. It's affecting virtually every aspect of my family's life: going out to eat, grocery shopping, taking vacations, keeping our jobs, educating our children, even where we buy socks. And then there's recession stress. I'm stressed, my husband's stressed, and that makes our marriage a stressful place to be. It's bad enough when I feel guilty about spending money on lip gloss. Does my relationship with my spouse have to suffer as well? You betcha. I think the phrase "toxic assets" has more to do with our monthly bills than with any floppy sub-prime mortgages. Since the economy started its descent into the toilet, we alternate between ignoring the elephant in the room and talking about it until we're shouting at each other. Neither scenario really works.
The reality is that this recession is affecting nearly everyone, even Warren Buffett, even those of us who are well educated, financially responsible and good enough at what we do to command a respectable wage. Here's the rub. We have two kids in private school, and we've worked hard to be able to keep them there. But now we're faced with having to take one of them out next year and put him in public school, unless we can pull a financial rabbit out of our collective hat in the next nine months. I'd rather eat beanie-weenies for a year than deprive either of my children of a top-notch education. But have you seen how expensive beanie-weenies are these days? Never mind private school tuition.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Key Lime Pie
I was five years old when my uncle introduced me to the seductive pleasures of a well-crafted Key Lime Pie. He was 30 and passionate about things like sailing, making money, smoking cigarettes, girls in mini-skirts and go-go boots – and Key Lime Pie. Contrary to the nature of most kids, I did not have a sweet tooth. Chocolate bored me; candy held no appeal – it was too hard, too sticky, too sweet, too gooey. But lemons and limes, sour green apples, cranberries in the form of a cake, pie or tart were all fair game. For me, it all came down to the thrill of the pucker.
I guess my uncle figured that lurking somewhere inside me was a Key Lime pie convert, because one day when we were all vacationing in Key Biscayne, he took me aside and asked me to help him make dessert. Perched on a high stool, I watched him slice through the petite limes and squeeze the juice into a glass bowl, wringing every drop of pale green liquid from each half until they were practically bone dry. Memory fails me through the next critical steps, but I do remember sitting at the counter, watching as he cut into his creation, examined it with one eyebrow cocked, popped a forkful into his mouth and pronounced it the “best goddamn pie ever.” One bite, and I, too, was gone, lost forever to the surprising bliss of this lime-condensed milk-egg yolk concoction.
In my twenties, I became a self-styled expert on the subtleties of this seemingly simple dessert. After my uncle’s death of a heart attack, I even took it upon myself to ensure that his Key Lime pie legacy lived on by creating my own recipe. The trick was to achieve the ideal balance of sweet and tart. Not enough lime juice, and the filling would taste like any other cloying, store-bought confection. Not enough condensed milk, and the tangy aftertaste could linger for days like a bad odor. I tried adding cream cheese, delicate fronds of lime zest, exotic sugars, even fat-free condensed milk. I topped it with whipped cream, crème fraiche, Cool Whip, plain yogurt mixed with powdered sugar, even meringue whipped up in a frenzy of pre-menstrual frustration. Then there was the crust, the bane of every Key Lime pie’s existence. The make-it-or-break-it factor. I subscribed to the unadulterated graham-cracker crust. No substitute would do. Graham cracker crumbs mixed with enough butter to hold it together and patted down carefully into a glass pie plate. For a while, Key Lime pie became my signature dessert, in much the same way other women are known for their fashion flare, I had pie panache. My pie was in demand, it was popular – people clamored for it. It was the dessert equivalent of a Top-40 hit.
But as fads grow old and tired (remember tube tops?), so did my obssession with Key Lime pie. I turned my back on it. I gave up desserts, even for the sake of politeness. I told myself I was over my addiction, that lemon tarts and Key Lime pies were history, along with a few old boyfriends. I got married, I worked 12 hours a day, went to parties, played tennis, traveled and did all those things that childless, married people do, not once regretting my decision to make a clean break from my Key Lime Pie past.
And then I got pregnant. The smell of toast sent me galloping to the bathroom; just being in the same room with broccoli or fish of any kind propelled me into paroxyms of nausea and vomiting. Nothing stayed down; nothing tasted good. Three months into the pregnancy, I was five pounds lighter and still only managing saltines and seltzer. Occasionally boiled plain noodles. Then one day, I went out to lunch with a friend, with the intention of ordering a Sprite and watching her eat something fabulous. On a lark, I opened the menu and there it was: Key Lime Pie. The first entry under Desserts. It practically jumped out and grabbed me by the throat. Somewhere in the background, maybe in my head, I heard my uncle’s voice describing to me how to make the perfect pie, and suddenly my mouth was twitching and fizzing, filling with saliva. Not because I was about to lose my Sprite all over the table, but because I was craving a taste of mouth-crimping, palate-teasing, swimming-in-a-sea-of-key lime pie. I ordered it, nibbled at it like a rabbit and made it through without so much as a rumble of queasiness.
And so began my Key Lime Pie Tour of Houston. Over the next six months, I sampled slices at more than 30 restaurants. I tried Oreo crusts and garden-variety pie crusts; pies with chocolate chips or orange peel or strawberries. Some were ethereal, others, like the piece with the consistency of week-old cheesecake, weren’t even worth a eulogy. But with every bite, I considered that, if there were a god and a heaven, then surely my uncle would be there, a gin and tonic in one hand, a girl on one knee and, on a plate, a wedge of his own homemade Key Lime pie to make the angels sing.
I guess my uncle figured that lurking somewhere inside me was a Key Lime pie convert, because one day when we were all vacationing in Key Biscayne, he took me aside and asked me to help him make dessert. Perched on a high stool, I watched him slice through the petite limes and squeeze the juice into a glass bowl, wringing every drop of pale green liquid from each half until they were practically bone dry. Memory fails me through the next critical steps, but I do remember sitting at the counter, watching as he cut into his creation, examined it with one eyebrow cocked, popped a forkful into his mouth and pronounced it the “best goddamn pie ever.” One bite, and I, too, was gone, lost forever to the surprising bliss of this lime-condensed milk-egg yolk concoction.
In my twenties, I became a self-styled expert on the subtleties of this seemingly simple dessert. After my uncle’s death of a heart attack, I even took it upon myself to ensure that his Key Lime pie legacy lived on by creating my own recipe. The trick was to achieve the ideal balance of sweet and tart. Not enough lime juice, and the filling would taste like any other cloying, store-bought confection. Not enough condensed milk, and the tangy aftertaste could linger for days like a bad odor. I tried adding cream cheese, delicate fronds of lime zest, exotic sugars, even fat-free condensed milk. I topped it with whipped cream, crème fraiche, Cool Whip, plain yogurt mixed with powdered sugar, even meringue whipped up in a frenzy of pre-menstrual frustration. Then there was the crust, the bane of every Key Lime pie’s existence. The make-it-or-break-it factor. I subscribed to the unadulterated graham-cracker crust. No substitute would do. Graham cracker crumbs mixed with enough butter to hold it together and patted down carefully into a glass pie plate. For a while, Key Lime pie became my signature dessert, in much the same way other women are known for their fashion flare, I had pie panache. My pie was in demand, it was popular – people clamored for it. It was the dessert equivalent of a Top-40 hit.
But as fads grow old and tired (remember tube tops?), so did my obssession with Key Lime pie. I turned my back on it. I gave up desserts, even for the sake of politeness. I told myself I was over my addiction, that lemon tarts and Key Lime pies were history, along with a few old boyfriends. I got married, I worked 12 hours a day, went to parties, played tennis, traveled and did all those things that childless, married people do, not once regretting my decision to make a clean break from my Key Lime Pie past.
And then I got pregnant. The smell of toast sent me galloping to the bathroom; just being in the same room with broccoli or fish of any kind propelled me into paroxyms of nausea and vomiting. Nothing stayed down; nothing tasted good. Three months into the pregnancy, I was five pounds lighter and still only managing saltines and seltzer. Occasionally boiled plain noodles. Then one day, I went out to lunch with a friend, with the intention of ordering a Sprite and watching her eat something fabulous. On a lark, I opened the menu and there it was: Key Lime Pie. The first entry under Desserts. It practically jumped out and grabbed me by the throat. Somewhere in the background, maybe in my head, I heard my uncle’s voice describing to me how to make the perfect pie, and suddenly my mouth was twitching and fizzing, filling with saliva. Not because I was about to lose my Sprite all over the table, but because I was craving a taste of mouth-crimping, palate-teasing, swimming-in-a-sea-of-key lime pie. I ordered it, nibbled at it like a rabbit and made it through without so much as a rumble of queasiness.
And so began my Key Lime Pie Tour of Houston. Over the next six months, I sampled slices at more than 30 restaurants. I tried Oreo crusts and garden-variety pie crusts; pies with chocolate chips or orange peel or strawberries. Some were ethereal, others, like the piece with the consistency of week-old cheesecake, weren’t even worth a eulogy. But with every bite, I considered that, if there were a god and a heaven, then surely my uncle would be there, a gin and tonic in one hand, a girl on one knee and, on a plate, a wedge of his own homemade Key Lime pie to make the angels sing.
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