I'm on deadline. And when I'm on deadline I compulsively snack on pistachios. I tell myself they're brain food.
But this particular time instead of sifting through pistachio shells snuffling for the.very.last.nut with the tips of my fingers like some kind of sad zoo animal, I've let my mind wander.
In a deeply-folded nook of my memory I've found a new and surefire procrastination and one that's delicious too. It's thinking lovingly of lemon meringue pie. I'm piecrastinating. Not from a box mix. Oh no, lady, no. The phrase "stiff peaks" must be applied to the egg whites.
I'm musing about the hours-long process of making crust from scratch with ice water, and standing over a copper pot making the lemon curd filling.
Is not lemon the great sky god's gift to those who sometimes want a bright tart citrus alternative? It's a happiness-inducer.
The words "lemon meringue pie" sound smooth, decadent yet innocent, and lump-less like so few things in life.
The lambswool-like meringue is in pleasingly caramelized carbonic tufts. Sweet marshmallowy-fluffy as the pillows on the bed in a Crate & Barrel showroom? Plumped with pride as the chest of my grandmother who was well-endowed and on whose bosoms (as she called them) I rested my head, while she stroked my hair and told me how wonderful it was that I was in the world, the young peaceful child I once was, when deadlines were shmeadlines, goofy things grownups got caught up in, like vacation planning -- and I operated in the vast open present moment only, and my only care was, When's dessert?