As I sit here at my desk on a blustery 2nd of March–if not a lion, it’s certainly at least a one-eyed alley cat with sharp claws this year–it occurs to me just how much the fact that I make my husband a rhubarb pie for his birthday every year is reflective of our life.
Most people have–and love–birthday cake. Birthday cake is normal. It is delicious and I enjoy a taste of it from time to time. But we do pie. Not just pie, but Rhubarb pie, which is a tart and acquired taste. If Apple Pie is all-American, Rhubarb pie is that cousin of your mother’s who moved to Canada in the early 70s and makes a living carving bears out of tree stumps and building canoes for people who summer in Saskatoon. It’s family, but it’s different.
Our life is so much like that. Not that Apple Pie, Birthday cake,2.5 kids, and 2 cars and everything nice and neat is a bad thing. But we’re just not…that.
We’re rhubarb pie, stained-glass-making, novel-writing, play-doh sculpting people who lie in the dining nook on a futon surrounded by dogs and drinking Coca-Cola from Mexico.
It’s nice.
Your description of rhubarb made me snort. I’m so glad I wasn’t drinking anything when I read this.