The patter of David’s firehouse red Keds sneakers are audible only to himself as he trots around the tile floor of the Save A Lot grocery store in Coffeyville, Kansas. The store is bustling with adults fresh from their nine-to-five office jobs; the clacking of their dress shoes out-perform David’s as their tired eyes glaze over boxes of instant mashed potatoes and gallon jugs of skim milk.

David’s fingers reach out towards the barrel of bright, buoyant oranges on his right, and he giggles when his finger brush against one of them. On his left, David’s dad pushes the bulky silver shopping cart. One of the wheels turns in all different directions and nearly catches one of David’s scuffed shoelaces as it wiggles around, making little skidmarks on the floor.

David’s stomach growls and purrs while his eyes wander all around the produce section, first towards the piles of ripe roma tomatoes, then at the bundles of bananas. He even glances towards the misted black shelves of broccoli, zucchini, and leafy greens which are usually force-fed to him by his mother. Today, though, his mother stays positioned at home adding spices to a bubbling pot of gumbo.

“You’ll need to do the grocery shopping tonight, Kev,” she had said, the corners of her plump red lips curving down. David’s father sighed, his breath a mixture of a store-bought onion bagel and cigarette smoke.

“Oh,” his mother continued, “and take David with you, please.”

David didn’t mind the distraction. However, he did wish he was at home sneaking spoonfuls of boiling broth while his mother chopped away at celery stalks instead of at the store where all you could do was look at the food. He can already taste the savory juices that surround the tender bite of the baby shrimp.

David’s father nudges David around the corner towards the checkout lanes. Choosing the one closest to them, David’s father veers the shopping cart with its wonky wheel towards the conveyor belt. David watches the curly-haired woman behind the register slide a plastic tub of sour cream, two tin cans of sweet corn, and a plastic-wrapped ham across the scanner and into a white plastic bag. Her fuschia fingernails tap against the metal counter as David’s father’s fiddle around in his wallet. His worn hands shake as if the gears inside of them are in need of a wash of oil. They finally grasp at two wrinkled ten dollar bills, and he places them in the woman’s soft hands. David grabs at the handles of the plastic bag and carries it at his side.

His father spins his keychain around in one hand and fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette in the other as the two walk towards the glass sliding doors, their black Subaru a mere fifty feet away. David turns his chin upwards to face his dad and focuses on the gray patches of his stubble. At the same time, two metal thunks sound to his left. Turning away, David finds the tub of sour cream and plastic wrapped ham on the floor, a ripped plastic bag still clutched in his hand, and two metallic cans of sweet corn rolling back towards the curly-haired woman. His keds patter against the floor again, this time quicker and louder as he grasps at the escaping cans. Shoving the cool cans into his sweatshirt pockets and lifting the ham and sour cream from the tile floor, David turns around to see that his father has already made it outside. Unbothered, he stands on the sun-bathed pavement with a cigarette shoved between his lips flicking at a silver lighter.

David shuffles towards his father and, already a little frazzled, bumps into the glass sliding doors, letting the ham and sour cream slip from his frail arms. David’s father, cigarette now emitting a trail of smoke, watches David bend down to gather the twice-dropped groceries while the glass door slowly creeps open. David stands in the opening and the two make eye contact, the young boy’s plump, freckled cheeks lift to form an embarrassed smile and the man’s lips part to sound a chuckle. The glass doors slowly come to a close while they share this moment, slabs of glass stopping once the two panes reach David’s tiny figure.

The doors make a buzzing noise, crushing against David’s ribs, both the glass and the boy stuck in their unconventional position. His dad gasps in shock, and a clump of ash enters his windpipe. Immediately, David’s dad hunches over, hands on knees as the dust trails into his lungs, his throat contracting into large, bellowing coughs. While he leans over gasping desperately for clean air, David remains stuck between the closing panes. A woman in a pants suit and an elderly man pry at the glass to try to open it and dots of purple and red enter David’s vision. He believes he can hear his bones pop out of their sockets, and through the purple and red dots he barely makes out a white pickup truck barreling towards his dad who kneels on the pavement.

At home, David’s mother hoists the hefty, hot pot of gumbo off of the gas stove and shuffles to the dining room table. Her mind wanders to the whereabouts of her family, hoping that the local grocery store was open, or that the black subaru didn’t break down on the way there. She ponders her worries, underarms sweating from the weight of the pot. The bottom of her soft bare foot lands on a toy firetruck.

The door to David’s home swings open as David and his father step in, each carrying half of the bought groceries. On the floor, David’s mother mops at chunks of carrot and celery floating in a pond of brown, speckled liquid.

“What took you two so long?” she asks, eyes still averted on the floor.

“What happened to the gumbo?” David exclaims, ignoring his mother’s question, eyes fixated on the juicy baby shrimp resting on a nearby rug.

“Lucky it didn’t land on me,” David’s mother chuckles, now facing David’s father, leaning on the wooden mop.

“Yeah,” David’s father responds with a croaky voice, “seems we’ve all had a little help from luck, today.”

David’s mother tilts her head and furrows her brows. David smiles to himself and unloads the cans of creamed corn from his pockets onto the kitchen counter.

To Make a Lemon Meringue Pie:

The Crust:

Step One: Cube your chilled butter by chopping at the slick rectangular rod with your knife, and sift your scoops of flour into a bowl. Allow the specks of flour to cascade through the tiny wires holes of the sieve and into a fluffy, white mound.

Step Two: Work together the butter, flour, salt, and a bit of cold water. Your mission is to keep your buttery flour mixture at the same temperature as your refrigerator: Cold. Achieve this and you’ll receive the perfectly feeble, forkable, flakey crust.

Tip: You can slice your cubed butter into thinner shards to incorporate into your flour using knives or a fork, working the metal prongs against the fatty solid, or you can use your hands. I prefer to pinch at the flour-coated squares with my refrigerator-cold, nimble, bony fingers; the ones that resemble my mother’s, though not quite as warm. My naturally cold hands could be a result of poor blood circulation in the body, and it seems my veins are not quite performing to their utmost potential: perhaps they decided not to cube the butter or sift the flour. Maybe they added too much water, or God-forbid, warm water, and now the dough is soggy and butter chunks are melted and segments of slimy pastry are sticking onto the insides of my veins. Maybe that’s why my blood can’t reach my freezing cold hands: its flow is clogged behind barriers of over-saturated pie dough.

Tip: If you find yourself in a similar situation, consider the fact that your refrigerator-temperature fingers were given to you specifically by your mother in order to create a perfect crust for Lemon Meringue Pie. Making this kind of crust requires cold hands, the kind that make your friends wince when you latch onto their fresh-from-the-dryer, blood-circulated arms.

The Filling:

After your crust is complete and in the oven, you may commence with the filling.

Step One: Begin by heating up your sugar (sifted, just in case), cornstarch, and water in a pot on medium heat while whisking. As your whisk trails through the syrupy mixture, it should leave distinct patterns, like each metal rod is ice skating on fresh, glassy ice.

Step Two: Use that mixture to temper your egg yolks. Egg yolks are in the sensitive food group, so I’d advise that you warm them up with a hot drink before launching them into a volcano of steaming hot, syrupy liquid. If you’re quite impatient, or just enjoy dancing with the devil, you can haphazardly empty your egg yolks straight from their sharp shells into your steaming, sweet, sugar mixture. After all, it is your Lemon Meringue Pie.

Step Three: Add lemon juice, zest, and butter. Perhaps you add in twice the amount of lemon juice than normal because you crave the exciting bite of acid that puckers your cheeks and jolts your eyes awake from their blurry, coma-like state. Perhaps you use salted instead of unsalted butter because you miss the flavor of real, salted butter. You miss it when it was slicked, smeared and soaked onto a slice of toasted whole wheat bread, the oils lingering on your lips while you hunker down to watch reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond in the morning while the sun rises. You may find that you also miss your grizzly-bearded father who lets the pad of butter sit just long enough on the warmed toast to marinate it in the salty, greasy, and creamy spread.

Tip: There are no rules when it comes to baking; maybe you decide to add a little more of everything. Perhaps you add an extra dusting of sugar, or an entire carton of eggs. Maybe you decide not to separate from the rich yolks from the tangy whites, maybe you don’t separate the egg innards from the brittle shell at all. Your pie may have shards of shell scattered into the filling like crispy broken glass that prevent your hometown friends from chewing the pie properly. They may complain that the shells have been wedged between their teeth and their tongues are singed from the acid. Really, your new-found enthusiasm intimidates them in the same way a charging bull intimidates a blood-red flag. They wonder why you prefer a dessert as obscure as Lemon Meringue Pie to the boxed chocolate cake whose batter you used to slather onto your tongue using your finger as a utensil in high school. You aren’t affected by their comments, though; you’re excited! After all, it is your Lemon Meringue Pie.

The Meringue:

Step One: Beat together egg whites and cream of tartar on a low speed until foamy. Take a moment here. Dip your toes into the cool, transparent and glossy-topped egg whites. Allow the bubbles to wiggle and circle around your metaphorical feet.

Step Two: Once eggs are slightly foamy, you may begin beating at high speed while adding your granulated sugar. The amount you choose to beat and froth your egg whites should be left to your own instincts. When you decide to cease your whipping, your mixture may resemble a goey, shiny version of whipped cream. At this point you can stop, stick your finger in and contemplate the feeling: If it feels more like bubble bath foam you tossed around as a toddler than the half-eaten canester of marshmallow fluff you hid behind the box of Cheerios in your dark, childhood pantry, keep going.

Tip: Once you reach a certain age, you may wish to experiment with over-whipping your egg whites, turning the glossy, sticky, peaks of egg to a dry, crumbly mess, just for the sake of curiosity. Be warned, for afterwards you may mourn the loss of your wasted eggs. You may feel around in your pockets, fingers dancing with only a few nickels and dimes to buy more. Your mouth may taste of copper from the shock of adulthood and you may begin to wish that the metallic flavor were your body regurgitating more coins. Your knees may collapse to the sticky, skid-marked hardwood floor of your studio apartment in panic that you never really wanted to experiment at all. You’ve spent your whole life only baking standard Lemon Meringue Pies, why change now? The grievances you feel may manifest themselves into a well-rested brunette woman who sits across from you in an office chair draped with a calming light blue waffle blanket. You take turns speaking, and on your turn she listens to your egg story carefully so that she can file it through her robotic nervous system and emit a resolution. She does this for five sessions until you decide you’ll never again make Lemon Meringue Pie due to the possibility that you will over whip your egg whites, or cook your filling so long that it refuses to solidify inside the oven, or add too much water to your crust until it becomes a whopping sticky ball of regret. Maybe your fingers become so cold, colder than refrigerator cold, that you decide you’d rather shove them into the rough and linty pockets of the sweatshirt you got from the thrift store than into a bowl of butter and flour. Maybe you pull the hood over your head and keep your eyes averted to your toes sticking to the scuffed, sticky kitchen floor and focus on things you used to know, like boxed chocolate cake batter streaked onto heavy metal bowls that you used to scoop up by the glob on your nimble, bony fingers.