Pecan Hand Pies

and smiling women

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My plate this Thanksgiving with my mom’s incredible turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, cranberry sauce and relish, applesauce, my homemade challah, and a glass of Beaujolais.

I hope you enjoy my latest flash fiction piece, “Smiling Women,” about the difficulties of friendship and not caring what people think, and the recipe for pecan hand pies you can enjoy all winter long.

Smiling Women

“How the hell’d you get that up here?” Nancy pointed to an oil drum in the corner of the apartment. The front half of it was sawn cleanly off. Two round wooden shelves fit into it, and a pretty floral paper lined the inside.

“Billy brought it up for me. It’s the perfect size to hide that god-awful wine stain.” The carpet was green, which contrasted oddly with Kelly’s own green pants. They clashed horribly — the carpet teetering on the edge of chartreuse and her tapered legs wrapped up in a deep and decidedly piney hue. But buckets of light flooded in through the glossy wiped windows like sunshine on grass. “I put the shelves and wallpaper in it. But he brought it up for me.”

“Flirt,” Nancy smirked. She nestled comfortably on the sofa, nearly swallowed by its striped and lumpy fabric.

Kelly gave her a vexed but unvengeful glare. “Just this time.” Just her pant legs and velvety brown flats stuck out onto the carpet. The rest of her was stretched out, elbows propped up, on a picnic blanket she’d spread out across the carpet. The gingham looked festive and summery against the carpet colored just a shade off from grass.

A pumpkin satin Alice band stretched across her jet-black hair. She wore a camel-colored cashmere sweater that stretched pleasingly across her bust and conjured up questions of diet and exercise and a very tight girdle. She flipped the page of her magazine.

Nancy’s hair was nut brown and slicked and pinned into a twist at the back of her head. Her eyebrows were drawn on in a soft brown pencil, matched exactly to her hair. She had large eyes, deep set and peeking out beneath a layer of pink-orange shadow, matched exactly to the blush she’d swept across her cheeks. She placed her hand on the table beside the couch, carefully lifted the unscrewed cap off the polish bottle, and dragged the brush across her nails one-by-one.

“Let me see,” Kelly said, craning her neck without moving her body.

Nancy held her hand out to Kelly like she expected her to kiss it.

“Oh, it’s so bold.”

“Too bold?”

“Divinely bold.”

Nancy held her hand up to the shaded lamp on the table. Bright orange glinted in the light. “Now I just have to be bold enough to match it.”

Kelly sat up and folded her legs under herself. She reached for the tube of lipstick on the table. “Here.” She unscrewed the cap. “Open.”

Nancy parted her lips. Kelly swept the color gently across her friend’s mouth then sat back on her heels to take it in. She reached for the box of tissues on the table. “Blot,” she said, and Nancy did.

Kelly smiled. “I like it. But I don’t know if you will.”

“I’ll wait to look until I’ve built up my courage.”