Disaster finds redemption

A story worth retelling

Ever have a frozen pizza week? I’ve been marinating a few ideas hoping one would be worth serving today. But at the eleventh hour, and after a come-to-Jesus with the performance addict in my DNA, I realized what I really needed, more than single-minded dedication, was to give myself grace.

Sometimes grace looks like frozen pizza.

Sometimes it looks like telling a story you’ve told before.

I’ve spruced up the the piece below, published here two falls ago, including the addition of a recipe at the end you might enjoy later this week, when you’ve had enough of your Thanksgiving leftovers (nodding here to my readers across various oceans for their patience with this uniquely American holiday).

More than anything, and more than ever, I appreciate my communities. For me, and I hope for you, too, finding points of connection is how I want to direct my energy. You motivate me to continue thinking, growing and improving. In a time when much is changing, I’m reminded that tenderness comes in many forms and that we are stronger together.

Wishing you everything you need to feel happily full.

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Holding on to pretty much everything

The day before the last day of summer, I bought a pumpkin, drawn to it because it was different. A muted blue-gray, like a Hubbard squash without lumps, it had a pleasing shape. Explaining he’d only just harvested it, the farmer suggested I give it a few days to cure in a warm, dry place. I popped it into an outdoor shed and thought nothing of it until a month later, when I panicked, sure my sequestered, blue, baby had turned into a pulpy disaster.

This wasn’t melodrama. I was working off the memory of the time I discovered a glass of white wine in the dish cupboard. When I asked my husband why he’d put it there, he gave me one of those endearing looks reserved for spouses who have opened their pie holes without first checking for brain activity. That we almost always drink red wine hit me a second or two before I recalled stowing a wannabe jack-o-lantern on top of that same cupboard weeks earlier. It made good sense, until I forgot about it.

Out of sight, in the warmest place in the house, the squash liquified, releasing a pale consommé into and down the back of the cherry, Shaker-style cabinet. A little-used glass near the top caught some of the exudate, but the majority slipped down, silently, to the bottommost shelf.

Remarkably, I would not be the one to deal with the aftermath. I dashed off to some other obligation, leaving my magnanimous man to work a cleaning miracle while I was out. True love: that’s the only explanation I can offer for his willingness to rescue me from my blunder.

Thus, having no reason to expect my latest pumpkin-headed move to end differently, I let out a joyful squeal when, instead, I found my blue squash still intact and as lovely as I remembered it. I brought it to our front steps, partnered it with a traditional, orange pumpkin, some potted purple pansies, and a claret chrysanthemum. It was a bright, quirky collection suited to us and the season.

Fall progressed. Thanksgiving came and went. Had history played on repeat, as usual, the pumpkins would have languished outside until they froze, becoming good for nothing other than compost and next year’s random garden progeny. But our older offspring was on the cusp of launching a new life 2,000 miles away, drawing attention to our traditions and engendering an incredible urge to hold on to pretty much everything.

For the first time in our family, we installed Christmas immediately after Thanksgiving—a fresh tree from a family-owned store up the street, our hand-me-down nativity set, with the blonde, blue-eyed Mary and baby Jesus, on the table in the corner. The squashes were now completely out of step with the holiday decor, but I couldn’t imagine parting with them. I brought them inside, set them on the landing, tucked greenery and pinecones around them, and willed them into a purposeful winter.

We planned and organized. We celebrated and hugged. We packed the car and bid farewell, and very soon after, thanked the gods of modern technology for bestowing Yuletide togetherness upon us, even though we couldn’t actually be together. We said hello to a new chapter.

The house grew quieter than ever. The evergreens became a fire hazard. It was time to get back to work. We boxed up Christmas earlier than usual, and I transferred the collection of pumpkins to the kitchen table, where they looked as awkward and hapless as I now felt. Within a week, the orange one gave up, tilting over, a clear sign of bottom failure. I carried it out back. The blue one, though, still so much the same as it had been when I first discovered it, warranted something more.

And so it was, four months to the day from when I brought it home, that I gave it what it seemed to deserve most: I turned it into food, a most delicious bounty! We downed bowls of spectacular vegetarian curry, froze chunks of edible gold, and chewed with satisfaction on salty, roasted seeds.

A humble squash hardly seems a worthy candidate for so much care-giving, but I don’t believe memories require merit. The stories we keep are a place to put the experiences that transform us. Remembering is our opportunity to hold on to anything our heart desires.

~Elizabeth

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All righty, now to you. Tell me I’m not the only one to lose track of a vegetable, to deleterious effect. 🫠 What are you remembering this holiday season? Holding on to? Spooning into bowls? I’d love to learn more from you in the comments.

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