Photo: SC Martinez

Published in Gooseberry Lit Magazine , January 16, 2025

The Butterscotch Pie Artist

When we were kids, our mother claimed, she was forced to cook dinner for her family of seven every night from age twelve until she married our father, who also expected dinner every night, so she cooked daily with great resentment because she was an artist, destined for extraordinary things. 

But only for Thanksgiving, she’d make her best thing, her sole kitchen triumph, her unforgettable butterscotch meringue pie – from scratch. 

Using proportions magically stored in her head, she’d measure the flour, water, and shortening by eye for the crust and patiently cook the eggs, milk, cornstarch, and brown sugar, constantly stirring, to make the custard. 

Once she’d baked the crust to a golden brown, she’d fill it with the thickened butterscotch filling, followed by a stiff layer of severely whipped egg whites, which she’d place under the broiler to brown the meringue tips standing proudly on top.

Years later, we can still close our eyes, awed by its symmetrical perfection displayed on the counter before she cut anyone a piece and imagine inhaling its unique aroma, tasting its velvety sweetness, and biting into the perfect crunch of the crust. 

Brimming with domestic contentment, we forgive her the hundreds of awful dinners she’d served us all year long for one piece of her pie because she truly was an artist, and butterscotch pie was her pièce de resistance.

Photo: SC Martinez

Published in Ghost Parachute, January 1, 2025

Now That You’re Here, Why Not Stay?

We’d discussed getting a dog for a while. I needed someone who would greet me with warmth and approval. My stepson, Kevin, couldn’t. He’d wake angry, and sleep angry since his mom put him on a plane at the LA Airport in August and called us to meet him in NYC. He’d slept on the couch for weeks until we built him a bedroom in the loft.

When Kevin descended the escalator to Baggage Claim, I recognized him instantly, though I hadn’t seen him in four years. At thirteen, he was five feet tall with big hands and feet, like a puppy foretelling his future height. Kevin was scared. His eyes darted everywhere and were open so wide it must’ve hurt. His jaw was clenched. He walked reluctantly toward us ­– his dad, Ben, who’d moved East eight years earlier, and me, his step-mom. He glanced around as if toying with bolting, but we quashed his plans with hugs he didn’t return.

Four months later, Ben spotted the scruffy dog loitering in front of our building in DUMBO, Brooklyn. A blizzard was forecast for that New Year’s Eve afternoon. After a few ear scratches, she followed Ben inside like she was coming home. We offered her canned tuna in water, undrained, and she inhaled it in seconds.

The dog was filthy and had no ID tag. I bought her a collar, leash, and food and drove her to the vet. The doctor guessed she was eight months old, lived with a family who deserted her or got lost, and lived on the street for about a week. The vet gave her puppy shots while she looked on as if some other animal was getting stuck. It was snowing hard as I drove to her home. Kevin stayed in his room.

We bathed her. She was 35 lb. and a redhead, assembled from random dog parts – the long nose of a Collie, a Weimaraner’s brown snout, ears from a German Shepherd, and a tail that wagged constantly. Despite posting flyers, no one claimed her, and she became our dog, our Paloma. Timing walkies was tricky. We observed her for signs she needed to go out. Once outside, she’d follow behind, tapping Ben’s or my leg with her nose, keeping an eye on us so we wouldn’t run away.