Polly's pies

We used to sit in Polly’s Pies, in a booth under white fluorescent lights and scan the menu. You’d always order peach cobbler, even after looking again. You did every time.

The restaurant was simple, a storefront with large plastic letters that glowed softly in the evening. It was in a strip mall, right on Culver Blvd across from the Sizzler, where I’d eventually work after you died.

We’d go there too, visiting the buffet, until we were such regulars the manager would nod us through the line. We’d eat for free although your teasing was true: I ate enough for 2 or even 3. I was always hungry, for food, for life, for experiences that came from turning from one thing to another, rather than savoring. I’d eat plate after plate, hurriedly, hungrily.

But pie, and peaches, they’re different. They are worthy of a slow pace, of being fully experienced and not forgotten.

Maybe you knew that then, as you’d look up the glossy sheen of the table and laminated menu reflecting off your deep olive Armenian skin, and simply say to the waitress, “A slice of peach cobbler, a la mode”.

I’d look across the table at you - your dark hair classically framing your face and almond-shaped brown eyes - and stifle a grimace. Even then, I craved certainty, for my intuition to provide the best selection. I’d refuse to try yours when it arrived. Instead, I’d devour the silky soft layers of chocolate pie with its layered flimsy crust. I’d eat until I felt sick, my actions untethered from the cycle of desire, fulfillment, satiety.

But you knew what you were doing.

As I sat, spooning pie in, you’d delicately draw each balanced bite toward your mouth. Thick syrup tethered slices of fruit to its buttery crust. Piles evenly laid across the tines of your fork. You’d balance each bite with a speckled off-white portion of frozen french vanilla goodness. And, you’d savor it.

Now, when I visit the farmers’ market on Saturdays I am drawn to the peaches like they are magnetic, poles pulling me in. I tuck a few firm fruits into my satchel, for later. I fill up a brown bag with those that are soft, ready to be enjoyed. Their fleshy interiors are white, yellow, or sometimes a pale bloody orange. My teeth tear through the skin before I even make it home.

Like you did, sometimes I offer to share. And, since my friends and I (mostly) have escaped the periodic rebellious uprisings of middle adolescence, folks often accept.

It is hard not to laugh as we both bite into the fruit and are covered in splashes, drips, or sprays of juice. It is a moment of connection.

I wonder now if you and I would have gotten along better if I’d been able to say yes more.

Last night, your sister turned 80. We gathered and ate confetti cake housed in a layer of sprinkles so thick you could not see the icing. You would have hated it. I loved being there though, and I would have loved celebrating you in this way.

Your lessons linger like memories of Polly’s Pies.

Your peach pie proclivity remains such a beautiful reminder to slow the f* down, take a breath, take a bite, and try - every so often - to just say yes to the things others offer you. It’s partly the agreement to try that connects us as people, and that connects me to you, mom, even so long after you’ve gone.