Mud Pies

The Geneva Writers Group workshops led by Susan Tiberghien centre me as a writer and have for over two decades. They hurl me from my daily life and remind me that first and foremost I'm a writer...even when I'm washing the floor.

Today's session on memoir was no different.

This exercise from the class is an example.

MUD PIES

My grandmother made the best mud pies. We would use our dishes, not the best ones, but the every day ones.

The tablespoons to mix our concoctions came from the chest of drawers under the painting of grapes that she'd done. She had no training but was a good artist, nevertheless. My daughter has the painting now.

My grandmother and I would talk as we dug dirt came from the garden near the back door and after the two maple trees where my swing hung suspended from a bar. She took anything I said seriously.

We'd pour in water and pretend we were Louise, the woman whose last name I've forgotten, but who demonstrated cooking techniques on Channel 7 at one o'clock weekdays.

Sometimes we'd add stones or pine needles for texture. We'd pour the mixture into molds to dry in the sun, often adding an acorn for decoration. When they were "cooked" we turned our mud pies onto a plate.

We never ate the mud pies.

 And I never saw her wash the dishes and spoons we used, but I know she did.