Dec. 28, 2018

Three avocados, a hand drawing of a tattoo, and a cup of seafood seasoning sat on the red-tiled kitchen bar, along with leftover Christmas items: a jar of chocolate candies, an opened package of Oreos, and two rows of red Solo cups.

Behind the kitchen bar stood Mama and Makayla, who were at work on an evening “project”—my birthday pie—of which I wasn’t supposed to be aware.

They spent over an hour rolling out dough, mixing up meringue, and whispering about the “project.” Disney music rang from a portable speaker atop the kitchen table as I painted my fingernails and studied the ingredients on the bar.

“Coconut cream pie—that’s what I requested that Mama bake me for my birthday,” I thought. “Yup, that’s it.”

Finally, my favorite part of the baking “project” came, and I volunteered to help.

“Mama, I was doing this same thing 20 years ago,” I said as I licked a spoon covered in pie filling.

“I don’t think anyone outgrows this,” Makayla responded as she held a pie-filling-lined bowl in one hand and a scraper in the other.

After the dishes piled up in the sink and the sun set, the smell of coconut cream pie overwhelmed the kitchen and spilled over into the living room, where Dad sat in his usual chair and watched the western channel.

Back in the kitchen, laughter broke out by the oven as Mama accidently poked a spatula into the top of one of the pies that was still in the oven.

“I just destroyed the most beautiful pie Makayla ever made,” Mama said.

Dad made his way into the kitchen just as Makayla and Mama pulled the pies out of the oven and onto the bar. Amused, he walked around the kitchen to find the source of the commotion he heard from the living room.

“Birthday pies by Makayla,” Mama announced to our kitchen crowd of three.

I looked from Dad to Mama to Makayla.

A smile came across my face, and I memorized the details of this moment—which is one of the last in my 23rd year: the sound of the chorus of Disney’s “Part of Your World” playing throughout the kitchen; the sight of Makayla, who wore a red apron and messy bun, standing next to Mama by the oven; and the feeling of being blessed with homemade coconut cream pies in a country kitchen on a December night.

These details make up what I call my home.