I look out the window and I see the moon is just a shade past full. Which means itβs time for the December edition of Pure Ghost Radio, the full moon literary podcast for people who canβt sleep. Iβm Carvell Wallace
It is the December full moon the Full Cold Moon. The last full moon before the days begin to get longer. It is the holiday season, a time for family and gratitude, coziness and togetherness. So, naturally , for December I bring you three short stories about shameβ¦
Opening Theme Music
Shame. Three short stories.
1.
A recipe appeared in my inbox for a cranberry tiramisu. I didnβt have cranberries, but I had tons of pomegranate seeds, so I thought Iβd make a pomegranate tiramisu. Every time I told someone I was planning on doing this, they reacted as if getting the seeds from a pomegranate was an incredibly hard and nearly impossible task. This was odd to me. There is an entire region of the world, home to billions of people, for whom de-seeding a pomegranate is a basic a task as peeling a banana. I think of this often. How things that are basic to some are absolutely frightening and inconceivable to others.
The pomegranate tiramisu turned out visually very beautiful, but unfortunately too sweet. Way too sweet. So sweet, in fact, that when we cut into it at the dinner party and I bit into a piece, my heart sank and I felt that I had let down the people I loved. For the rest of the night, I felt this way: ashamed that I had not made a perfect dessert for my friends and family. Sure, we sang karaoke and shared laughs, but I kept watching everyoneβs dessert plates to see how much of my tiramisu was left uneaten on them.
Later that night I tried to sleep, but I couldnβt. I kept hurting my own feelings by thinking about the failed tiramisu, re-playing every cooking decision I had made. I shouldnβt have reduced the seeds so much. I should have adjusted the sweetness of the cream to account for the sweetness of the pomegranate. I should have soaked the ladyfingers in a combination of espresso and pomegranate juice. I was awake until four. I felt like I was in trouble. The next morning, I had an emotional hangover. I smoked a cigarette. I binged on cookies. I stayed in bed till noon.
When I finally did get out of bed, I made myself a cup of coffee, cut a tiny piece of the tiramisu and tried it again. . And the thing about it: there was a really good dessert somewhere in there. I could sense it. I could taste it. I just failed to let it out.
2
I was trying to buy ginger. The produce section of the grocery store had a huge box of it, deep and filled to the brim. But I couldnβt reach it. It was blocked by a very small old woman in huge faded black clothing. She was hunched over, carefully inspecting each root in the box. She would pick through until she found one worthy of examination and look at it carefully, turning it over, scrutinizing every crevice and speck of dirt. Then, with the slightest bit of disillusionment, she would toss it back on the pile and pick up another one.
I stood behind her and somewhat to the left, mildly bewitched by this unapologetic display of fussiness. I let minutes pass.
Was I standing there because I didnβt want to take the risk of reaching over her, menacing her with my hulking form? Maybe.
Was I standing there it because I had decision fatigue in the store and just appreciated not having to do anything specific in that moment? Perhaps.
But I think I might have been standing there because of that weird queer/adhd/neurodivergent thing where a tiny little light goes off in your brain, the one that hijacks yiou and tells you that this seemingly meaningless undertaking thing you are watching is, for some reason you will never understand, far, far more important than anything else you could possibly be doing in this moment.
Eventually, another woman approached from the other side. Younger, White. She watched the old woman for a few seconds before grabbing a root from the bin and leaving. She did this quickly enough that it couldnβt help but to read as just the slightest bit passive aggressive. Before she left the old woman turned to her and said something; something I couldnβt understand but could only hear the rhythm of. It was like βincoherent mumblingβ
