pi_day ovenbird An accident of timing means that I'm making pie on Pi Day. With my daughter I cut cold butter into flour, roll out a crust, slice apples into translucent wedges, whisk caramel sauce on the stove. Now the house smells like salt and cinnamon and I've licked enough sweetness from my fingers that I'm sleepy and just slightly ill. The dog tucks his head against my hip and we wait, sprawled on the living room couch, for heat to transform what's raw into fire fit for burning our impatient tongues. I used to have better restraint but I see the way my spine is curving under the weight of years, how the water my joints swim in is draining away, and I find I'm less certain about the promise of tomorrow. Today there will be pie, but tomorrow? I don't trust the greedy glint in its eye or the way it looks at me, like I'm nothing more than meat. 260314 what's it to you? who go blather from