{"id":13772,"date":"2020-12-07T15:00:00","date_gmt":"2020-12-07T21:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/the-unexpected-dryness-of-a-lemon-poppy-scone-by-jacob-ginsberg\/"},"modified":"2025-10-28T16:19:14","modified_gmt":"2025-10-28T21:19:14","slug":"the-unexpected-dryness-of-a-lemon-poppy-scone-by-jacob-ginsberg","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2020\/12\/07\/the-unexpected-dryness-of-a-lemon-poppy-scone-by-jacob-ginsberg\/","title":{"rendered":"The Unexpected Dryness of a Lemon Poppy Scone"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<ul class=\"wp-block-social-links is-content-justification-right is-layout-flex wp-container-core-social-links-is-layout-765c4724 wp-block-social-links-is-layout-flex\"><li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-facebook  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=61556140010887\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12 2C6.5 2 2 6.5 2 12c0 5 3.7 9.1 8.4 9.9v-7H7.9V12h2.5V9.8c0-2.5 1.5-3.9 3.8-3.9 1.1 0 2.2.2 2.2.2v2.5h-1.3c-1.2 0-1.6.8-1.6 1.6V12h2.8l-.4 2.9h-2.3v7C18.3 21.1 22 17 22 12c0-5.5-4.5-10-10-10z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Facebook<\/span><\/a><\/li>\n\n<li class=\"wp-social-link wp-social-link-instagram  wp-block-social-link\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/boudin_mcneese\/\" class=\"wp-block-social-link-anchor\"><svg width=\"24\" height=\"24\" viewBox=\"0 0 24 24\" version=\"1.1\" xmlns=\"http:\/\/www.w3.org\/2000\/svg\" aria-hidden=\"true\" focusable=\"false\"><path d=\"M12,4.622c2.403,0,2.688,0.009,3.637,0.052c0.877,0.04,1.354,0.187,1.671,0.31c0.42,0.163,0.72,0.358,1.035,0.673 c0.315,0.315,0.51,0.615,0.673,1.035c0.123,0.317,0.27,0.794,0.31,1.671c0.043,0.949,0.052,1.234,0.052,3.637 s-0.009,2.688-0.052,3.637c-0.04,0.877-0.187,1.354-0.31,1.671c-0.163,0.42-0.358,0.72-0.673,1.035 c-0.315,0.315-0.615,0.51-1.035,0.673c-0.317,0.123-0.794,0.27-1.671,0.31c-0.949,0.043-1.233,0.052-3.637,0.052 s-2.688-0.009-3.637-0.052c-0.877-0.04-1.354-0.187-1.671-0.31c-0.42-0.163-0.72-0.358-1.035-0.673 c-0.315-0.315-0.51-0.615-0.673-1.035c-0.123-0.317-0.27-0.794-0.31-1.671C4.631,14.688,4.622,14.403,4.622,12 s0.009-2.688,0.052-3.637c0.04-0.877,0.187-1.354,0.31-1.671c0.163-0.42,0.358-0.72,0.673-1.035 c0.315-0.315,0.615-0.51,1.035-0.673c0.317-0.123,0.794-0.27,1.671-0.31C9.312,4.631,9.597,4.622,12,4.622 M12,3 C9.556,3,9.249,3.01,8.289,3.054C7.331,3.098,6.677,3.25,6.105,3.472C5.513,3.702,5.011,4.01,4.511,4.511 c-0.5,0.5-0.808,1.002-1.038,1.594C3.25,6.677,3.098,7.331,3.054,8.289C3.01,9.249,3,9.556,3,12c0,2.444,0.01,2.751,0.054,3.711 c0.044,0.958,0.196,1.612,0.418,2.185c0.23,0.592,0.538,1.094,1.038,1.594c0.5,0.5,1.002,0.808,1.594,1.038 c0.572,0.222,1.227,0.375,2.185,0.418C9.249,20.99,9.556,21,12,21s2.751-0.01,3.711-0.054c0.958-0.044,1.612-0.196,2.185-0.418 c0.592-0.23,1.094-0.538,1.594-1.038c0.5-0.5,0.808-1.002,1.038-1.594c0.222-0.572,0.375-1.227,0.418-2.185 C20.99,14.751,21,14.444,21,12s-0.01-2.751-0.054-3.711c-0.044-0.958-0.196-1.612-0.418-2.185c-0.23-0.592-0.538-1.094-1.038-1.594 c-0.5-0.5-1.002-0.808-1.594-1.038c-0.572-0.222-1.227-0.375-2.185-0.418C14.751,3.01,14.444,3,12,3L12,3z M12,7.378 c-2.552,0-4.622,2.069-4.622,4.622S9.448,16.622,12,16.622s4.622-2.069,4.622-4.622S14.552,7.378,12,7.378z M12,15 c-1.657,0-3-1.343-3-3s1.343-3,3-3s3,1.343,3,3S13.657,15,12,15z M16.804,6.116c-0.596,0-1.08,0.484-1.08,1.08 s0.484,1.08,1.08,1.08c0.596,0,1.08-0.484,1.08-1.08S17.401,6.116,16.804,6.116z\"><\/path><\/svg><span class=\"wp-block-social-link-label screen-reader-text\">Instagram<\/span><\/a><\/li><\/ul>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-large-font-size\"><strong>The Unexpected Dryness of a Lemon Poppy Scone<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><strong>Jacob Ginsberg<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Eight pages into Arundhati Roy\u2019s <em>God of Small Things<\/em>, after being stunned to find I\u2019ve somehow plagiarized a book I\u2019ve never opened, I linger over the text on Sophie Mol\u2019s tombstone: A SUNBEAM LENT TO US TOO BRIEFLY; I look up to a sunbeam through a cracked window, and I realize I\u2019ve completely surrendered my whereabouts to the driver whom I\u2019ll underpay through a company known for harassing women, so I stop reading and write a lengthy sentence about consumption and experience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cSomewhere around here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">We\u2019re in a verdant cul-de-sac on the corner of Mulberry Drive and Bead Tree Lane. We look for house numbers until I spot my father in a black suit. I\u2019ll be the only one in a t-shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cHere\u2019s perfect,\u201d I say. \u201cGo birds.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Dad is on the phone. I don\u2019t know where I\u2019m going, so I read the sentence I composed in the car. I want to add a clause about the irony of propounding ethical consumption while using a device built in a sweatshop, but it seems clich\u00e9. I wonder why I believe criticism has to be unique to be valuable, why once something like tech companies using sweatshops becomes common knowledge, writing about it about it feels platitudinous and preachy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Dad covers the bottom of his phone and mouths, \u201cWhere\u2019s Adam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">His senior project is his excuse, but really my brother is too terrified of death to attend an event like this. \u201cWorking,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Dad nods, then ushers me into the house. He went to the funeral before shiva, and he\u2019s Gordon\u2019s best friend. I\u2019m close with Gordon\u2019s kids and have met their extended family, but can\u2019t remember names, can\u2019t remember meeting Gordon\u2019s mother before she died. I don\u2019t know her name, and walking in alone I feel peripheral and under-dressed, like my presence is delegitimizing and somehow insulting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Across a thin white hallway checkered with family photos, I make eye contact with someone I don\u2019t recognize. I smile. It\u2019s too early to determine what atmosphere I\u2019ve entered, but it seems loud for oppressive grief. My only experience with death before now is what I\u2019ve seen and read, which is probably why I expected hushed tones and low wailing. It sounds like a normal party.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Mom is in front of the drink table with Sharon, Gordon\u2019s distinguished, endowed-professor wife. Hugs for both.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cCan I fix you a seltzer?\u201d Mom asks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I want the bourbon beside it but say, \u201cSeltzer\u2019s perfect.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cGordon was fantastic,\u201d she says. \u201cHe captured what made her unique.\u201d As she hands me the drink, Gordon wades in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Another hug. I am sorry for his loss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cWe were just talking about your eulogy,\u201d Mom says, \u201cAnd how your mother had such an admirable approach to life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Gordon crunches on an ice cube from his own beverage, alcoholic I assume. \u201cAll that mattered to her was the company she kept,\u201d he says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cA great philosophy,\u201d Mom says, earnestly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">We collectively sigh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I want to ask if earnestness is the antidote to clich\u00e9, but it doesn\u2019t seem like an original thought, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Sharon gently taps my shoulder and says, \u201cI\u2019ll go check on my kids.\u201d Both are upstairs, Jake napping since he made the funeral via a 5:00am flight out of Burlington, Audrey sending off her daily since she works in finance and it\u2019s a weekday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Mom checks email on her cellphone, so in Sharon\u2019s absence I tell Gordon my brother asked me to pass on his condolences. In the ensuing silence, I ask if it was special having the whole family together last night. Gordon\u2019s mom died on Friday, and Jewish tradition dictates the body be buried as soon as possible, but rather than holding the funeral Sunday, the family elected to postpone it a day so they could gather to watch the Eagles steamroll the Vikings 38-7 in the NFC championship. It doesn\u2019t surprise me in the slightest that the football tradition won over the religious one. Judaism is about questions, uncertainty, diaspora; the Eagles are constant, easy to believe in no matter what anxieties or doubts creep in. I want the Eagles to win even when I want to give up on writing, when I lose touch with what\u2019s real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cWhat a dominant performance,\u201d Gordon says, slurping his final ice cube.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI still can\u2019t believe they\u2019re going to the Super Bowl,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He swirls imaginary whiskey in his empty cup. \u201cIt might be coincidence, but the last time they went my dad was dying. He passed four days after they lost to the Patriots.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I remember watching the game in his home that year over a decade ago, but don\u2019t remember knowing that his father\u2019s life was dwindling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Gordon appears to be looking at something just past the top of my head. I fight the urge to look behind me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThis year\u2019s different though,\u201d he says. \u201cMom dying <em>before<\/em> the game is a good omen. That\u2019s why my brothers and I are going.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cTo Minnesota?\u201d<br>\u201cWe\u2019re still deciding if we need to sacrifice someone else for the win.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I laugh, but lightly, then drink my seltzer. It occurs to me that using dark humor and exorbitant spending on Super Bowl tickets to manage grief is at once relatable and out of reach. I try to untangle the threads connecting death and football in Gordon\u2019s life. I wonder if losing his father right after the Super Bowl made the death worse, if knowing that it was about to happen made it harder to watch the game, if Gordon thinks about his father dying every time the Eagles play, or just every Super Bowl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Mom\u2019s phone emits an email-sending swoosh, then clicks locked. As she pockets it, Sharon returns with Jake and Audrey.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Hugs for both. I am sorry for their loss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">They seem tired, but not that sad. Audrey explains why she had to do her report even under the circumstances (\u201cIt would have taken me longer to teach someone else to do it, so I just did it myself\u201d), and Jake yawns. She\u2019s wearing a fine black dress and he\u2019s in a sport coat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">While I fidget in my t-shirt, we start to catch up: Audrey is working more than I can fathom and enjoys living at home. She has learned most of her responsibilities on the job. She usually gets Saturdays off. Her parents pick up the dry cleaning. Jake loves school. He parties, but not too much because of squash. He works extremely hard while seeming to do very little. He\u2019s missing class today, but his friend told his professor that he\u2019s sick to avoid announcing Jake\u2019s family death in front of their peers. He\u2019ll head back to the airport in a few hours so that he can attend class in the morning. I\u2019m empathetically exhausted for them both, and I\u2019m eager to investigate the food spread.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Fortuitously, Audrey says she wants to eat, so we break for the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">While trying to think of the word for a doorway without doors, I\u2019m stopped underneath one by Dad, who introduces me to a man who says a name I immediately forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He asks the scripted follow up. \u201cWhat do you do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">It\u2019s easier to say I\u2019m a tutor. They ask what I teach, I say primarily test prep, but let them know I take any work I can get in all subjects, and it ends with me handing them a business card stamped with my bold blue name on the front and a pretentious <em>Faustus<\/em> quote on the back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI\u2019m a writer,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He doesn\u2019t present like the kind of person who will tell me I need to write every day or judge me as a hack afraid to cut his hair and enter the real world, but I worry he\u2019ll ask me if I\u2019ve been published, to which I\u2019ll have to say \u201csome letters to the editor, but no fiction.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I\u2019m thus surprised when he asks, \u201cWhat are you writing right now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">My face opens and my ears perk up. \u201cI\u2019m working on a story where the narrator kills a window washer. Or he tries to. He does <em>something<\/em> to him. He\u2019s walking down the sidewalk and gets dripped on, and when he looks up,\u201d I look up and wave my hand for emphasis, \u201cHe sees this window washer suspended thirty stories above the ground, shining in sunlight reflected off a modern glass sky scraper, swaying on his little seat like a celestial painter. And in witnessing this moment, the narrator just snaps. He starts imagining what it would be like if the window washer fell. He tries to devise a way to kill him.\u201d I\u2019m oblivious to my funeral faux-pas of talking so animatedly about a murder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">The man whose name I don\u2019t remember sort of nods and inches slightly away from me, so I don\u2019t tell him I\u2019ll probably abandon the story, since on the way over I discovered the entire premise is already captured as the foreboding thought of a character in <em>God of Small Things<\/em>. I don\u2019t tell him that at Sophie Mol\u2019s funeral, Rahel daydreams about the person who decorated the ceiling:<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><em>She imagined him up there \u2026 barebodied and shining, sitting on a plank, swinging from the scaffolding in the high dome of the church, painting silver jets in a blue church sky. \u2026 She thought of what would happen if the rope snapped. She imagined him dropping like a dark star out of the sky that he had made. Lying broken on the hot church floor, dark blood spilling from his skull like a secret<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">A literal celestial painter, shining and swinging on a plank, falling to his poetic death. My eyes are dazed while I reflect on Arundhati Roy in jealous admiration, and Dad recognizes that the man has tuned me out, so he changes the subject and allows me to escape. Walking away, I\u2019m certain that my accidental plagiarism is a sign I\u2019m incapable of writing something original, that there are no new narratives, that the Patriots are going to win again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I survey the remnants of two large platters. One is covered by folds of deli meat, the other by cream cheese, smoked salmon, and a ten-inch white fish. There\u2019s also noodle pudding (Audrey calls it kugel) and a basket of bagels. While I spread cream cheese, I try to guess how much catering companies use grief to inflate their prices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Once I\u2019ve assembled my plate, I see Jake and Audrey are engaged in conversations. Rather than trying to join, I sit on a folding chair in the living room and start eating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Beside me sits an old man, also alone. His dry red cheeks contrast his halo of gray hair. He wipes his nose and sips his tea, then rests the cup in a saucer on a plastic coffee table. \u201cYou\u2019re a Ginsberg, right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He must know me, or he\u2019s seen me talking with my father. \u201cYes, I\u2019m Jacob.\u201d I have no idea to whom I\u2019m speaking, so I set my bagel down and dab my mouth with a napkin. \u201cRemind me of your name?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI\u2019m Richard. I know your father, Gordon\u2019s friend. Was it easy for you to get here? Where do you live?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I explain my Philadelphia origins, New York childhood, Providence undergraduate education, and brief westward experiment before moving back to Center City here in Philly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Richard points across the room to his daughter, who he says lives in California. \u201cShe also went to college in New England, about forty minutes from Foxborough,\u201d he says. He shows the hint of a smile. \u201cShe stayed an Eagles fan, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cGo birds,\u201d I say, latching onto the topic because it\u2019s the ultimate conversational lubricant. <em>Go birds<\/em> is the Philadelphia <em>shalom<\/em>, interchangeable with hello or goodbye, used to greet friends or part with loved ones or shout at strangers in jerseys across the street. Homeless men will say it if you don\u2019t have change for coffee, and if you do, they\u2019ll tell you, \u201cDoug better take care of business this week.\u201d It\u2019s the perfect subject to discuss with someone I should know but still can\u2019t identify.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cHow do you like our chances?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cThis our year,\u201d he says, like I\u2019ve asked him for the time and he\u2019s simply reporting the fact from his watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cYou really think so?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Now he shows a full smile, and shimmering eyes. \u201cYou bet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I realize that he probably remembers the first Super Bowl, that he\u2019s been waiting for this moment for decades, that he might count himself lucky to be alive for it. I try to imagine him listening to Eagles games on the radio as a child, tailgating with raucous friends at the Vet, watching a playoff game on a tiny, grainy screen with his daughter in 1980.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Like Gordon earlier, Richard is focused on something behind me. In his older face, I recognize it as a look into the past. \u201cGordon was at my wedding,\u201d he says. He spins his mug in the saucer without lifting it. \u201cTechnically. My sister, who the funeral was for, she was pregnant with Gordon at my wedding.\u201d He sees her in a bridesmaid\u2019s dress instead of my face upon realizing who he is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Trying not to reveal I didn\u2019t know he\u2019s the brother of the deceased, I ask, \u201cWas she an older or younger sister?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cOlder.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cDid she look out for you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Another smile, but it\u2019s slightly uneven, diminished. \u201cNo, I took care of her. She didn\u2019t even speak to me until I was six. Completely ignored me. It wasn\u2019t until my first day of kindergarten that she acknowledged me. She was walking to the bus stop with her friends, and they asked, \u2018Who is that kid following us?\u2019 She turned around, put her hands on her hips, and thought about it. Then she said, \u2018Oh, that\u2019s my brother.\u2019 She finally decided that I was all right, that it was okay to have a brother. From then on we talked.\u201d A crumpled handkerchief collects a tear from his red cheek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cWas today difficult?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">His eyes shift to the immediate past, and he sees himself shoveling dirt onto her coffin. \u201cWe buried her in my family plot, next to my parents. Now it\u2019s just me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">He is the sole living member of his nuclear family; the other three are together in the ground. No one else knows what it was like to be in that family. Others lost a mother, an aunt, a grandmother, but no one else lost a sibling, one supposed to accompany him from start to finish, one who knows him well enough to understand why he\u2019d skip a funeral without him needing to explain, who\u2019d gladly pass on an excuse and awkward condolences for him. No one else is sitting near this man whom I didn\u2019t recognize, who is completely alone in his grief, who is the last survivor of the family that formed him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">I\u2019m overwhelmed by this intimacy and his isolation, but as I open my mouth to speak, I\u2019m called from across the room. Over my shoulder I see my father with a Gordon relative, so I say, \u201cBe right back,\u201d and leave Richard to his aloneness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">In a sitting room littered with used plates, the relative apologizes and says, \u201cWe thought you could use a rescue.\u201d I tell them I was fine, but I settle on a couch and reach for a pastry on the coffee table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Another relative asks, \u201cWhat\u2019s that one?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI thought it was going to be a lemon poppy scone,\u201d I say, \u201cBut I\u2019m not sure. It\u2019s unpleasant. Very dry.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Dad shakes his head knowingly. \u201cI saw someone consolidating cookie trays, and only those were left,\u201d he says. \u201cDefinitely not a winner.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cAgreed,\u201d I say, before putting the rest of the scone in my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Dad and the Gordon relatives are puzzled. They tell me I should just take a different pastry, but I explain I feel unethical throwing away food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cLike this morning I had to throw away bananas,\u201d I say. \u201cThey aren\u2019t grown anywhere near here. They\u2019re picked by workers in poverty and shipped by freight using fossil fuel; then they turn brown and end up in the garbage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cYou can freeze old bananas and use them in smoothies,\u201d someone offers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cI know, but I\u2019m stuck in this cycle. I see them in the too-browned-to-eat but not-brown-enough-to-freeze stage, and by the time I check them again, they\u2019ve turned moldy at the bottom of my fruit bowl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Everyone sort of nods and inches slightly away. They try not to visualize moldy bananas to avoid thinking about decomposition. I brush a lemon poppy crumb out of my beard and know it\u2019s time to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Two weeks after the funeral, Gordon and his siblings fly to Minnesota. They check into a four-star hotel and slip their Super Bowl tickets into lanyards around their necks. Before kickoff, they send their families photos of themselves and their view from seats that cost thousands. They try for a final time to divine the meaning of their mother\u2019s death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Two hours after kickoff, Richard sits alone in front of his television. He watches the Eagles line up at the one-yard line on fourth down, thirty-eight seconds left in the first half. He clutches his armchair and feels his heartbeat in his palms, giddy like a child.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Two seconds after the game ends, my brother and I scream and embrace. We shove beers into our back pockets and join the chaos outside his apartment. We run down Walnut Street to City Hall, where from all passageways Philadelphians converge to climb light poles and awnings, set off fireworks, topple cars, and sing. We elate with one hundred thousand voices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Four days after the riot, 700,000 people line Broad Street and the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, convulsing at the Philadelphia Museum of Art in an endless ocean of green. Some are carrying urns. When the procession passes, they scatter the ashes of loved ones and weep. My brother stands on my shoulders to get a better view of the trophy glinting in the sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-medium-font-size\">*<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">Sixty years after the parade, my brother will sit completely alone in the aftermath of my funeral. A strange young man who never met me, doesn\u2019t know my name, has no idea to whom he\u2019s speaking, will sit beside him and awkwardly munch on an unexpectedly dry scone. He\u2019ll cough and choke down water, then make small talk with my brother by asking about football.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">\u201cDo you remember where you were when the Eagles first won the Super Bowl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">My brother will shine a full smile, and shimmering eyes. \u201cYou fucking bet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\">__________<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-medium-font-size\"><a href=\"https:\/\/twitter.com\/JacobGinsberg1\"><strong>Jacob Ginsberg<\/strong><\/a> is a writer and tutor living in Philadelphia, PA, where he attends as many Birds games as possible. He earned his MFA at Temple University. This was slated as his first publication before it was delayed by forces of nature, so he\u2019s still counting it. You can read more of his work in <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.tinymolecules.com\/issues\/six#jacob-ginsberg\">Tiny Molecules<\/a><\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>__________<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n<div class=\"wp-block-image\">\n<figure class=\"alignleft size-full\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" width=\"438\" height=\"211\" src=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" class=\"wp-image-15484\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1.jpg 438w, https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/37\/2024\/01\/boudin-logo-1-300x145.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 438px) 100vw, 438px\" \/><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n<p class=\"has-text-align-center has-large-font-size\">&lt;&lt; <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2020\/12\/07\/hash-marked-by-jordan-escobar\/\">Back<\/a> <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/2020\/12\/07\/mascot-by-beth-mcmurray\/\">Next<\/a> &gt;&gt;<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>To learn more about submitting your work to <em><a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/boudin-submissions\/\">Boudin<\/a><\/em> or applying to McNeese State University&#8217;s Creative Writing <a href=\"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/mfa-application-submissions\/\">MFA program<\/a>, please visit Submissions for details.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"has-white-color has-text-color\">*<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>The Unexpected Dryness of a Lemon Poppy Scone Jacob Ginsberg __________ Eight pages into Arundhati Roy\u2019s God of Small Things, after being stunned to find I\u2019ve somehow plagiarized a book I\u2019ve never opened, I linger over the text on Sophie Mol\u2019s tombstone: A SUNBEAM LENT TO US TOO BRIEFLY; I look up to a sunbeam&hellip;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[202],"tags":[75,146,108],"class_list":["post-13772","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-all-football-20-boudin","tag-boudin","tag-fiction-2","tag-football"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13772","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13772"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13772\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21123,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13772\/revisions\/21123"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13772"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13772"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mcneese.edu\/thereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13772"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}