Sweet, Sour, Salty, Bitter.

"So, what do y'all think?" my grandma asked us.

It was probably not her best effort, I think maybe too sweet, if that's possible for pie crust.

"Well, I didn't think it could be done," she said, "but I think I added too much sugar!"

I don't really know much about pie crusts, but congratulated myself anyway for the good call, "Yeah, Grams, I think you're right."

Her face fell. My uncles looked at me with alarm. I read their minds, 'You can't criticize a gradma's pies, she'll stop making them!'

I tried to recoup, "Oh, but I like it sweet anyway, and the little design on top is beautiful!"

She perked up, "Oh, it took forever, I used a toothpick!"

"Well you sure did a good job!" I said in my 'good-grandson' voice.

I examined the little trail of dots poked into the pie crust, perfect little swirls and arabesques. Their smallness and the simple care with which they were made depressed me. I made things complex.

I thought about my ex. I never encouraged her enough.

I wanted her to convert to Catholicism, I didn't see any other way for us to exist as a couple. Admittedly, some days it seemed silly, but, other days, crystal clear.

She didn't really do anything to explore conversion, but she did express some interest, maybe she even genuinely believed that she might one day care. Rather than encourage that, I called her on her bullshit. Standing on her bed, yelling, "If you really gave a shit, you'd do something about it!"

I put my fork down, lest I stab myself with it. I missed her. But thinking about her made me think about her more. I picked my fork back up; I didn't want self-pity to ruin my Thanksgiving pie.

My uncles would take care of that for me.

"Hey, so Ben, how are you and Helen?"

Lie? "Oh, we're ok."

Wheedle? "Uh, well, she moved, so, you know."

Bitter truth?

I really didn't want to recount the story, I had told it already too many times.

So my anger told it for me.

"Well, she got this job, didn't tell me for like a month, and then moved to New York."

Both uncles furrowed their brows. "Really? She knew she was going to leave for a month and didn't tell you? She seemed so sweet."

She was. I skipped the part about me and a poorly worded series of ultimatums I had delivered to her over the year we were together. 'Hey, look, I ain't sayin' you have to be Catholic, but my wife does, know what I'm sayin'?'

"Well, I mean, she was sweet, but she was also really deceptive, or maybe confused, or maybe deceptive and confused. But, I mean, I don't know, I wanted to work it out with her, and after I found out she was moving we sorta seemed like maybe we could work it out, it was actually pretty nice."

My sappy uncle nodded his head understandingly. My more seasoned uncle shook his head in doubt.

I continued, "I mean, even after she got there she was all like 'Oh, I miss you miss you miss you!' But, she called only once, and said she was going to call back, and just never did. That was like a month ago."

The table was silent as each person mulled over the infidelities and disappointments of their own lives. Lies told and lies believed, things that didn't matter having mattered too much, things that shouldn't matter still mattering now.

Around the bit of pie in her mouth, my grandma smacked, "What a little bitch!"

Embarrassed pause, then everyone burst into laughter at the incongruity of my kind little granma saying something so bluntly.

Wiping the too-sweet crumbs from my lips, I laughed loudest.