Something Unfinished

“This shouldn’t be so hard!” I said aloud to myself, my voice teeming with frustration, and then immediately laughed at myself, because of course it should. Of course it should be so hard. 

I looked around myself at the mess I’d made. There was flour on every surface—the counter, the floor, my clothing, somehow even the ceiling. There was a pile of gloopy, disgusting looking, room-temperature butter on my cutting board. 

“God damn it,” I whispered. 

The pie was my therapist’s idea. “It’s been almost three months. Eventually, you’ll need to start moving on with your life, but first, you should try to find some sort of closure. Is there anything you and James did together, something that feels unfinished?” 

I scooped up all of the messy, melting ingredients in my hands. It was a stupid idea, anyway. The actual baking was never my job. James and I had learned quickly that it was safer if I sat and looked pretty while his careful hands made the actual pie. He had been determined to teach me for a good few years, but eventually he’d given up, declaring that I was much better at eating pie than making it. 

I wiped up the flour, scrubbing at my counter until the kitchen was cleaner than when I started. 

Stupid pie. Stupid idea. I couldn’t bake. I knew that. I shouldn’t have even tried. 

– 

I laid in my bed that night, and I thought about him. I had met James our freshman year of college, almost four years ago. I’d been one of the lucky freshmen who got placed in an on-campus apartment rather than a dorm room, and thus had my own kitchen. James had been in my orientation group, and when he told me he loved baking and was so sad that he didn’t have a kitchen, I lied and told him that I loved baking, too. In truth, I had never done anything in the kitchen other than microwaving the occasional Trader Joe’s Chicken Tikka Masala, but he was cute, and I figured it couldn’t be that hard to bullshit my way into convincing him I was an experienced baker. 

I was wrong. 

I absolutely ruined that first pie we made. Somehow, I had burnt it to a black crisp on the top, but the apple mixture was still raw on the inside, and the bottom wet and soggy. I then confessed that I had never baked in my life and just thought he was cute. He’d told me that he’d teach me, so long as I let him keep coming over to make pies. 

– 

When I woke the next morning, a magnet pulled me back to the kitchen. I found myself reaching for the flour in the cabinet, then for the butter in the fridge. I heard James’s voice in my head. “The butter’s gotta stay nice and cold, otherwise your crust won’t get crispy.” 

Right. Cold butter. 

I whisked the ingredients together in a big bowl, and left it out. I started working on the apples. 

When I assembled the pie, it was hideous—a lumpy, weird-looking mess sitting in a pie tin. But at least this one was assembled. I put it in the oven, and I waited. I was sitting at my table, feeling like James would be proud, when I heard a loud POP followed by a nasty sizzling sound.

I sprang to my feet and ran into the kitchen. I opened the oven, and as I stared at the exploded pie guts coating the inside, I heard James’s voice in my head again. “Always make sure you cut little vents into the top crust of your pie. The steam buildup can make it crack, cook unevenly, or in the worst case, even explode.” 

“Oh, motherfucker.” I turned the oven off. 

– 

Over the next few days, I tried again, and again, and again. Each time, something went wrong, and James’s voice gently corrected me in my mind. 

“Don’t add too much water to the dough, it’ll get sticky.” 

“Make sure the apple mixture isn’t too wet, it’ll sog right through the bottom.”

“That’s the broiler. Turn the oven on ‘bake,’ or you’re going to set the top of your pie on fire.” 

I frantically Googled “pie making tips.” I tried different recipes. I prayed to the Pie Gods. That week, I did not make one single successful pie. The only thing I made is a complete mess of my kitchen. 

I’m never going to get this. 

– 

Then one day, I did. 

Two weeks, four therapy sessions, and thirteen failed pies later, I finally made something edible. 

It happened the day after a therapy session, where I had lamented to my therapist about my many failed attempts at finding the closure she had promised.

“You said you tried a bunch of different recipes. Have you tried the recipe that you and James used?” 

The honest answer was no. I hadn’t even looked at it. That recipe was buried in the text messages that James and I had sent each other. 

I had two unopened, unread messages from James, and opening them felt like acknowledging that I would never get a new text message from him again. I had been unable to open them for the three months they’d been sitting in my phone. 

But that day, I did. Maybe I just really wanted that pie recipe, or maybe a part of me needed to finally read them. 

I took a deep breath and opened my messages, steeling myself for whatever profound last words James had for me. 

JAMES: i just saw a rlly cute dog at traerd joes 

JAMES: **trader lol

I stared at my phone, and I started to laugh. Then the laughter turned into tears, and then laughter again. I must have looked like an absolutely insane person, sitting on my kitchen counter, laughing and crying. 

So much for profound last words. 

After what felt like hours but what might very well have been minutes of cry-laughing, I scrolled up until I found the recipe. 

CRUST: 

● 2 ½ cups all-purpose flour 

● ½ tablespoon granulated sugar 

● ½ teaspoon salt

● ½ pound cold, unsalted butter 

● 7 tablespoons cold water 

Combine flour, sugar, and salt into a food processor. Add in cold butter and pulse until dry and powdery. Add water one tablespoon at a time until the dough forms a rough ball. Divide dough into two disks, and let rest in the fridge for 1 hour. 

FILLING: 

● 3 large apples (whatever is in season) 

● ⅓ cup granulated sugar 

● 3 tablespoons lemon juice 

● 2 tablespoons water 

● 2 teaspoons cinnamon 

● 1 teaspoon nutmeg 

● 1 teaspoon allspice 

● 1 teaspoon ginger 

● 4 teaspoons cornstarch + 2 tablespoons water 

Dice up the apples. Melt the butter with all the spices in a saucepan over a medium/low heat until the butter is lightly browned. Stir in the apples, sugar, and lemon juice. Cover and cook for 7-8 minutes, occasionally uncovering and stirring. Create a slurry with the cornstarch and water, and add to the mixture in the pan. Stir until thickened, and then simmer for 1 minute. Remove from the heat and allow the mixture to cool. 

ASSEMBLY:

Roll out one disk of the dough to about ¼ - ½ inch thick. Shape to the bottom of a pie tin. Add cooled filling. Roll out remaining dough and place on top, crimping the edges together and cutting small vents in the top for steam. 

Bake at 350 degrees for 55-65 minutes. Allow to cool completely before slicing.

 I followed the recipe exactly. That text message was my Bible. I meticulously followed every direction. 

When I removed the pie from the oven, the top was a little bit burnt, but by God, it was a pie. And for the first time, I didn’t hear James’s voice in my head correcting my mistakes. 

I sent off a quick text message to my therapist. “I did it. I did it and I’m proud of myself. Why do I feel so empty?” 

Her response was almost immediate. “Why don’t you come in? I have an opening in about 45 minutes.” 

– 

I brought the pie with me to my therapist’s office. We ate in silence for a few minutes. 

“This is a damn good apple pie,” she said. 

“Thanks.” 

Silence. 

“I just…” I started. She stared at me expectantly. I sighed. “I guess I just thought that there would be this big, profound feeling of accomplishment… like, this feeling from beyond the veil that he’s proud of me.” 

She took another bite. 

“But it just feels like I lost something that I had with him. It feels like I closed the chapter of my life that he’s in.” I felt my eyes start to prickle.

“It’s all about the way you frame it. Yes, you’re right—the thing he had tried to teach you has now been taught. That’s finished. But now, you’ve made something that connects you right back to him. You can taste and smell and feel a little bit of James whenever you’re really missing him.” She took another bite of her pie. “And you should be proud. I never knew James, but I’m sure he’d be proud of you. Anyone would be proud of you for making this good of a pie.” 

“It just feels like it’s over. Like I’m done. Like something that is so unfinished is just… finished.” Tears were freely falling down my cheeks. 

“It’s not. You can make more pies.” 

I sat back for a minute. “I never considered that.” 

She laughed lightly. 

“I can make more pies.” 

– 

I stopped at Trader Joe’s on my way home from therapy to get more apples. I filled my basket with two dozen of them and walked over to the check-out line. 

As I was walking out of the store, I saw an adorable, squishy-faced pug. 

A really cute dog at the Traerd Joe’s. 

I smiled.

Darby Wilson

Darby Wilson is a senior double majoring in Secondary Education and English Literary Studies from Boston, Massachusetts. She is a member of RWU’s auditioned a cappella group, Hawkward, and serves as a writing tutor in the RWU Tutoring Center.