Nina and I have published a new piece in The Covid Journal. Thank you again to Michelle Elvy, who lives halfway around the world from us in New Zealand, but who always welcomes us into her room with open arms. https://loveinthetimeofcovidchronicle.com/2020/12/25/famiglia-from-covid-journal-pia-z-ehrhardt-nina-z-temple/ ”La Famiglia” – Ink on cold pressed watercolor paper – 20’ x 30” – Nina Z. Temple
During this last difficult year, I’ve been involved in making a book with my first sister Nina. Working with her on the page has felt like a safe haven, a return to our childhood. We moved often with our restless and adventuresome parents, the two of us the awkward, unmoored “new girls in school.” But at the end of every day we could count on the sureness of each other, because in every house and every town, we slept in the same room in twin beds. Putting together our book, NOW WE ARE SIXTY, has been another chance for Nina and me to spend time together, side by side. Our 112 pp. book pairs my memoir pieces with Nina’s intuitive, improvisational inks on paper,…
We may never get to India, but we can fix Indian food, learn the fragrant masala spices – fenugreek, cumin, coriander – discovered by the explorers and traded like jewels. We might fix tandoori chicken, coconut butter cauliflower, master curries the color of gold. Naan is as flat and wide as a frisbee. But roti steals the show: buttery, flaky, every bite a joy. Kachumber salad made of cucumbers cools the heat, and quenches. As the crow flies, Cuba is not even an hour away from New Orleans. We let the ropa viejo – old rags – cook all day. While we wait, we smash sandwiches in the Foreman grill so melted cheese runs out the sides and the edges of the meat crisp.…
When I see gummy candies at check out, I miss my son. The red cherries on green stems, the peach flavored peaches, blue Smurfs that stain the tongue. Long ago, he dared me to eat sour patch kids. “Just take one taste, Mom.” What an assault on my tender buds. I lean toward Swedish Fish! Are they raspberry? It doesn’t matter. They’re two bites of yum that get stuck in my flipper denture, so I eat them toothless. A few times, I’ve left home without the flipper and didn’t remember until I lisped or smiled. It’s not a bad feeling, to give your mouth more space, although the tongue can’t stop worrying the place. “Take care of your teeth,” I tell my son, just…
New Year’s Eve, Mom watched fireworks on the TV in her apartment not in the lobby with the residents and staff. They treat her well and with curiosity. “Won’t you play for us?” the staff says. They’ve noticed the violin case beside the bed. This is where my mother keeps what she worries the staff will steal, which is becoming everything she owns. I called the next day from Queens. “I need my new wheelchair,” she said. “Because I can’t leave my room.” “I know,” I said. “It’s on the way.” She was watching football. She’s from Detroit, but her teams are the Packers and the Saints. “Will they play each other in the Super Bowl?” she asked. “Not likely,” I said. “Are you…
When we were in our early twenties and unmarried, Nina and I would sit outside with our mom, drink white wine out of Polish crystal, watch squirrels give chase across the low brick wall that lined her patio. Gouda and apple slices and English water crackers would appear. We’d be dressed hippie casual in jeans, boots and gauzy pastel shirts, shades of mango, yellow, lilac, and Mom would have on creased slacks, flat sandals, and a silk shirt in an elegant subtle pattern of browns and tans, like a pintail duck, gliding across the surface. We smoked different brands: Kents for mom, menthol lights for my sister and me. We shared one lighter, one ashtray. We didn’t worry about our lungs even though Mom…
On our first night in London, we meet our son in the lounge for martinis. We’ve fled Mardi Gras in New Orleans. He’s got a head full of thick, rambunctiously graying hair even before he hits thirty, which will be next month. In the pocket of his jacket, he’s stuffed a book by George Orwell because tube time is reading time. He’s a historian, packing his brain with what’s left to know. We hug and turn sheepish, first, then rubbery because we are reunited, then peckish since his dad and I haven’t eaten since the airplane and Andrew is always hungry. He sits between us so we can both hear him. It’s hard not to gawk at this human we raised. On the small…
Thank you to Frederick Barthelme for publishing Nina and me in the current issue of his magazine. What a pleasure it is to share the page with my sister. https://newworldwriting.net/pia-ehrhardt-nina-temple-four-excerpts-from-now-we-are-sixty/
Excerpts from QUARANTENA – the next book I’m working on with my sister Nina – found a home in a new international literary journal: Love in the Time of COVID: A Chronicle of a Pandemic. It’s the brainchild of New Zealand-based editors Michelle Elvy and Witi Ihimaera, who have created a space for stories from around the world that hold up our humanity and enrich our lives. https://loveinthetimeofcovidchronicle.com “Life Lock” – Ink on cold pressed watercolor paper – 22″ x 30″
My new essay about falling not a second or third but a fourth time is Story of the Week at Narrative Magazine. Be careful out there! https://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/stories-week-2019-2020/story-week/my-fourth-fall-pia-z-ehrhardt
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