rustic tender_square the recipe called for a margarine crust, but i couldn’t envision how it formed. i’m used to cold chunks of butter warmed by my fingers, mashed with the flour, pinched and kneaded into mix. at the grocery store, the honey crisps tumbled out from the bottom of a weak plastic bag, rolling in all directions. “those are going to be bruised,” a man warned. i wasn’t about to put back seven apples; being bruised doesn’t make you useless. i cut around their soft spots, scooping brown mush away from white flesh. the mixing bowl brimmed with their half-moons. the dough stuck to the rolling pin, causing breaks and chafes in the sheet, and i cursed, macgyvered the layer between two parchment papers and found success with enough width to cover the flat pan. i nestled the apple slices like spooning lovers in rows, endlessly replicating, and tried to recreate a second sheet of pastry. the result was blob-shaped rather than rectangular, and too fragile to peel, crumbling onto the pan like ancient parchment. there could be no do-over. what if it didn’t measure up to how he remembered? what’s the purpose of a gift if the thought was well-intentioned but the execution was shoddy? i felt like i was the living embodiment of a pinterest fail. after ten minutes of baking, i realized i’d forgotten the egg wash. more cursing, more scrambling, more improvising and muttered prayers. i was sure the results were bush-league. as a precursor, i admitted to him the dessert was rough. “perhaps i should be kinder to myself and call them ‘rustic,’” i offered. the tray cooled and i cut a slice of convertible square. the buttery crust and warmed apples melted with a cinnamon swirl on my tongue. “good news,” i updated him in real-time. “they taste like heaven.” 230818 what's it to you? who go blather from