I thought you were protected. After all, had I not crowed here, on the pages of Texqueim, of my triumph in finally meeting you, in person? Of my plans to savor you with only the S-worthy? I swear, I proclaimed my love of you near and far, even calling long distance to my mother, herself a veteran of so many years of the Nutcracker Market with nary a single sighting of you.
Perhaps I misjudged her. I mean, really, she did give birth to me. Surely she should have felt the same sense of victory in her blood as runs through mine in the fact that I have you. Should she not feel pride that I wasn't forced to run from the door of Reliant Arena, in a herd of women headed your way? That I didn't have to jostle or elbow or even squeeze through to attain you? No, Dear Donne, I maintained decorum. . . a sense of dignity befitting your esteemed ways. I thought she'd be happy for me.
Perhaps she was secretly jealous. Or perhaps the move so far away has sucked the Houstonian from her soul. Or perhaps she's just a polished up farm girl who's faked a semblance of sophistication for years (hmmm, she DID veer off to those bling-covered faux-western shirts at the Nutcracker Market a few too many times the last time we were there together. . .). I confess, though, she did gaze upon you in my pantry while visiting at Thanksgiving.
And she did plan to open you and feed you to my ever-so-finicky offspring. *SHIVER* Thank the merciful father that I both heard and answered my cell phone when she called. And thank whatever sliver of humanity she had left in her hard heart that made her call. I could hear the weight of disapproval in her voice as she asked if I was saving you. And the heavy sigh when I said yes and stood my ground for you, Dear Donne.
But you were saved. Saved from puddling on my ungrateful offspring's Buitoni tortellini. Saved from overcooked Italian sausage folded into your savory depths. Saved. Saved by your pedestrian cousin:
Some call him Ragu. But he sacrificed himself for you.
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