Jiggle like Jello

Christmas. Yes, that marvelous spot in the calendar in which a pumpkin pie makes you sit in front of your worst enemy. I am, however, loyal to the slow death of custard melting in the mattress of my tongue. No matter how much pain is inflicted on the outside, how many aunts ask about my unemployment, or whatever bad joke my husband spits on the table: this pie is ma´Lord and savior.

This year would be no exception.

There I was, expecting the last spoon of stuffing to be claimed soon, so the ritual could proceed as established in any family worth its salt. I had dreamt for weeks with a pie whose center would “jiggle like Jello, not wiggle like a wave”; as my grandmother used to say. That was Abuelita`s quality standard to reject any pie that was not her own. One could say that my grandmother was entitled to this minor judge task. The legend tells that her recipe came directly from the settlers of the Plymouth Colony, who baked their pumpkins in hot ashes. She owed this to having married a much older American citizen with one of those traditional surnames. She was young when he visited her town and decided to take her with him (whether that was also her choice, remains a mystery until today). In any case, he left her early in life, but his family cookbook remained on the dusty shelves, and my grandma made good use of it. Maybe to prove in another Christmas dinner just like this one, that she could earn her way into the new family. Spoiler alert: she didn´t.

But for this holiday, enough small talk had been made, the children were already tired -or so it seemed since no desperate cry for help could be heard from the next room-. I stood up, knowing it was time and headed to the kitchen.

Sadly, drunk uncle Jorge intercepted me on the way.

"You lookin´ gorgeous, dear Isabela. Did you get a new haircut?", he said, putting his smelly arm around me. Funny, since I haven´t had a haircut in what, 3? 4 years now? Does uncle Joe even know how much a good haircut costs in this economy? I tried putting on a smile, freed myself from his body, and continued my journey.

My mom, who had had just watched this scene unfold, rushed at me like lightning. "Isabela!! It´s Christmas for God´s sake!! Do I need to remember you who paid for your University tuition?? Be gentle to uncle Jorge, please. What would your grandmother say if she was here??".

"Probably that your dress is too revealing", I answered and we both laughed breaking the tension that so easily seems to escalate in this house since Abuelita left. Her pumpkin pie was not her only contribution to this family: she occupied the role of an entire peacekeeping force. If we are all sitting here today is because her smell can still be felt in the air.

The same smell that hit me in the face every time I opened this door: whether I was 5 and excited to have a sleepover with late TV hours, or 18 and arriving drunk because my mom would kill me but Abuelita would give me a cup of chamomile tea. And every single time I would rush to the kitchen to say hello and ask "How are you?", the answer would always be "Very happy because now you are here".

I don´t think anyone cared about me as she did, nor do I expect them to. Being loved was so much easier when there was no need to put in any effort.

I opened the refrigerator and a wrapped pie looked back at me. The best part of the evening was about to start. I hold myself to that thought and did not reply to my cousin who was already sharing her thoughts on how our grandma´s death and any sickness whatsoever is a consequence of bad energies and not having positive thinking. Yes, that part of the night had arrived.

You see, Lucía is the kind of woman who never stops talking. That would not be an issue in this family if it weren't for the fact that every word that comes out of her mouth sounds like a quote from some life guru's book.

Therefore, I have decided that, in order not to kill her at this special time of the year, I shall stare at the floor and reply nothing to whatever she says tonight.

"You know I´m right Isabela, don´t look at me like that", she said.

Well, I guess my strategy failed.

- Thank God you are pretty, Lucía.

I grabbed the long serrated knife and pressed it gently across the top of the pie to cut through the edge of the crust. Equal parts so no one would complain. This year that was not a problem: ten slices are easier to cut than eleven.

The whipped cream was on a touch of cinnamon too.

- Merry Christmas everyone! Cheers!!

Yes, the Holidays had finally arrived in the shape of a pie.

I did not rush. I wanted all my senses to be prepared for this moment. A year had passed since we last saw each other, and what a year! the reunion had to be special.

I took the first bite. Wait a minute. What happened?? -I panicked-.

The amount of spices were correct, it was not too sweet, but something was missing and I could not figure out what. Christmas was ruined, the whole trip to this house was ruined, I even listened to Lucía speak nonsense for this!

Suddenly I stared at her empty chair: maybe the secret ingredient was her hands. My eyes filled with salt. My throat started to feel like a car traffic jam.

You always sat in that same chair, the one with the rickety leg. I never pictured it empty. I guess I thought you were going to be eternal.

Enough is enough, Abuelita. I need to let you go. No more pie, thank you.