Following the traumatic birth of her daughter, Kathleen-Anne spirals into depression and struggles to cope with her newborn baby.
Desperate to put some life back into the wife he adores, husband Rheemus suggests that she takes some time out to have...
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"You know how it is folks, the Wolfman plays the best records in the business and then he eats 'em, and I'm about to eat this one right here, Shop Around by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles on XERB 1090."
The trademark howl of Wolfman Jack buzzes through the wireless speaker like horseflies against the windowpane on a summer's day. The kitchen smells of apple pie and peach cobbler and I wrap myself up in the scent of sweet fruit and pastry as I dance about, shaking my hips in time to the beat. Flour dusts my arms right up to the elbows and my sunshine-yellow apron has streaks of powdery white down the front. I'm pretty sure it's even in my hair now, but I don't care as I bury my hands into the bowl, rubbing the flour and butter into breadcrumbs between my fingers.
I'm still dancing, still singing, still kneading the dough on the counter top, when Rheemus walks in. He stops in the doorway, staring, holding the towel in his hands that he uses to wipe off the grease and oil from the garage and I smile at him, a smile that slowly freezes into a corpse grin when I realize he's not smiling back. I can't work out whether he's ticked off about something, all I know is that he never looks at me like this. Never.
"Something wrong, darlin'?"
His eyes widen slightly, his mouth dropping open as if he doesn't quite know what to say. "What in the blue blazes are you doing, Kathleen-Anne?" he finally says.
I laugh, but it sounds forced and I'm instantly riled that he's invaded my space and darkened my mood. The spacious kitchen feels small with him in here and I don't like the way he's just gawping at me. "Well what does it look like, you great knucklehead? I'm baking."
"I can see that," he says. "Is the church having another bake-sale? I thought they had one just last month."
"What are you talking about?" I turn back to the pastry and begin to pummel it, which just riles me even more because I know I'm overworking the dough now and it's going to be ruined. "This is for us, I figured I'd make us some pie and cobbler. I know how much you love it too."
"That I do, but I don't love it this much. How the heck do ya think we're going to get through all this?"
I slam my floured fist onto the formica, sending clouds of white whirling up into the air. "Darn it, Rheemus, I was just trying..."
About fit to burst, I turn on him angrily, but when I follow his gaze, I see it.
I see just what he is gawping at so much.
The formica, the kitchen table, every available space is crammed full of so many pies and cobblers that you can barely see the worktops beneath. I didn't even realize I owned this many pie tins and cobbler pans and where I've run out, I've improvised and used whatever dish I could find. Sticky apple and peach runs down the sides in an oogie mess. Floured fingerprints pattern every surface. And I stare about, just as Rheemus is, because I don't remember making so many. I couldn't have made so many. All I remember was that I was hungry, really truly hungry and hankered bad for something sweet and so I'd started baking.
