Jenny's Pies

When the going gets rough, I can always count on Jenny to invite me over for one of her pies.

Nobody bakes pies like Jenny does.

She has more than a knack. It’s more like a gift. Nearly magic. And she can bake all kinds of pies – she has a beef and kumara version, an egg and spinach with feta, she has chicken and courgette; bacon and tomato; apricots with cinnamon; a tropical mix of pineapples and mangoes and coconut. It just seems like whatever my mood is, whatever I need, there’s Jenny with one of her pies.

Her house is always warm. It smells sweet or savoury. And we sit on her comfortable chairs, amidst the soothing décor, and she hears everything I have to say, and she makes it seem manageable again. I can tell her literally anything.

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And look, I know that Jenny loves me. I’m not stupid. I can see the way she looks at me whenever I come over. I know she puts some eyeliner on, and changes into a different dress. So yeah, it’s occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t do this. But then I think about that smile that comes over her face when she sees me, they way we laugh together, the way we share, and how we comfort each other when we need that.

So maybe that’s worth the unrequited longing. Who am I to be the one to judge?

And besides, she makes the best pies ever.

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work