Pie and ash

And now, out of the blue, memories! Because I’m entertaining my parents for a couple of days, out in the countryside; and these are two events I wouldn’t have ever known about if they hadn’t told me.

Parents always tell.

Long, long time ago I was a wee toddler playing at the log-squared pile of sand in front of the family house. Meanwhile, inside, mom was baking — brought a freshly-baked pie out to the steps to cool. I waddled there, unwatched, a fistful of sand in hand — the pie went uneaten, and I haven’t become a world-famous cook.

One other time, inside, I was playing in the kitchen-common room. One quarter of which is a massive, red-painted, sheet metal-covered wood-burning oven. Which has a little cover in the very lower parts for the extraction of ash. Like, at toddler height. Then me, waddling closer, no doubt thinking this had to be a secret candy depository for kids — and I am happy to say I have no memory of the taste. Blblbl; maybe that was an unconscious karmic payback for the pie incident.

(And oh, “out in the countryside”? Thanks to dad being a god of computers, and the whole high school-lower high school-complex’s unofficial technology expert in addition to math-phys teaching, there seems to be a new laptop or tablet here every time I come to visit. A 2nd-gen iPad this time; I approve of everything in it except the Appleness, which out of mostly blind ideological hatred I despise. And the Internet connection here, eh, it makes the screen glow and your hair blow back like the curls of a Swedish Eurovision performer.)

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