One December night, I was running late for the church potluck.

I’d made mac ‘n’ cheese to bring, like I always do when I have the ingredients. I’m not talking Kraft from a box, either. Homemade roux, heavy on the butter. A heavy-handed sprinkling of garlic salt. 8oz of macaroni noodles–maybe more, if I’m not paying attention when I’m pouring them into the pot. The kids love it. Sometimes that’s the only reason I bring it.

I loaded the garlic mac ‘n’ cheese into my Instapot and switched it on “keep warm” mode while I changed out of my pajamas. I put on my favorite pair of pants–these brown sort-of-checkered trousers that cinch at the ankle. There’s a multitude of pockets on those pants, and they sit high on my waist. I call them my Hobbit pants. I wear them with suspenders and look like a farmer. I remember I wore those when I went to see my favorite play for the third time. I met the cast that night. When I was waiting in the theater lobby for my brother to get out of the bathroom, a nice old lady had passed me by saying, “what lovely pants!” I’d demonstrated the fact that there were so many pockets. The lady concurred with me: they were marvelous pants.

Anyway, I threw those Hobbit pants on, then layered on some sweatshirts. It was already getting dark out, and hard snow iced the ground like sugar cookie frosting. I rushed downstairs and threw on my coat. Shoved my multi-socked feet into my boots. Those were nice boots–my nice, L.L.Bean winter boots. Brown, like my Hobbit pants. They’re low boots, only rising a little past my ankles. They have eyelets half way up that the laces pull through, then it changes into hooks. I was in a rush, though–had to get that mac ‘n’ cheese to the kids–so I pulled the long laces tight and tied them only halfway up, around the middle of the boot, under where the hooks started. I had a lot of extra lace to work with, so the bunny ears of my shoelace knot were quite lengthy. More English Lop than a classic California rabbit.

Boots laced thusly, I rushed to the kitchen, thinking of all the time I’d just saved.

I unplugged the Instapot and rushed out to the car. I lugged the Instapot onto the passenger’s seat. Peeled down the driveway and off to church.

My church meets in a coffee shop. It’s this quaint brick building with ivy growing on the back. The ceiling inside is partially plated with dark tin. The wood floors are old and in certain spots you can see down into the basement. I parked around the side of the building, on the opposite side of the one-way street. I stepped out into the chilly air, breath materializing in puffs in front of me. I wrapped the Instapot cord around the body of the pot, tucked the tip of the cord under the handle as I picked it up with my right hand.

I looked up the road, then crossed the street.

The sidewalk was frosted. My boots crunched on the hard snow. Crunch crunch crunch. It sounded like a hungry kid chewing on the lollipop he’d gotten from the doctor’s office.

Unlike my brother and my father, I don’t have a wide stride. For all my years of ballet training, I have very little to show for it. My brother once told me I stand like a shy anime girl. My dad calls my stride “pigeon footed.” Now, I’ve never cornered a pigeon to study it’s gait, but I’m sure they’re both right.

So I strode down that ice-laden sidewalk with my toes pointed inward, boot laces tied only halfway up my shoe.

I walked fast. I was on a mission. The giant shoelace bunny ears bounced as I bounded up the sidewalk.

One of the bunny ears on my right boot caught onto the hooks of my left. I felt it snag. Laces pulled taught as my left foot moved forward.

I had just enough time to think, “Ok, so this is happening–” before I felt my center of gravity lurch forward. I tried to stabilize. I waddled forward on the ice–right foot, left foot, right foot–laces all in a tangle, but gravity won. As I careened forward, only one thought barked out.

“PROTECT THE MAC AND CHEESE!”

As my knees slammed into the frigid pavement, I flailed the Instapot up into the air. My free hand slapped down into the sidewalk, saving my face from smashing into the ice. My right hand swung down, bring the Instapot with it–I stopped it from completely smashing into the ground, but it still landed with a clunk so forceful that the tiny moisture-collection cup on the of the pot popped off.

I sat in the ice for a moment. Alone in the dark, left hand and right knee stinging. I took a deeeeeep breath. I’m sure you’re familiar with the fine line between being pissed-off and being passive. My cheeks were hot. I really really hoped nobody had seen that. I put the pot down. I stood up and untangled my laces.

That’s when I noticed the giant hole in the right knee of my pants. My Hobbit pants. My favorite pants. I groaned.

I found the piece of the Instapot that’d popped off, and shoved it back into place. I stared at the Instapot in my hands. Mac ‘n’ cheese? Really? Why had I risked smashing my face into the pavement for a pot of mac ‘n’ cheese? I had torn a gaping hole in the knee of my favorite pants to save a pot of mac ‘n’ cheese?

I stifled a laugh. “This is going to be so funny later,” I thought. I shook my head. “What am I saying–this is already funny.”

I shuffled around the corner and into the coffee shop.

It was nice and warm in there. Orange lights. A table full of food. People laughing and talking, kids running around.

I plugged in the mac ‘n’ cheese on the potluck table. Found my roommate and took a seat next to her. While she and the rest of the table continued to chat and laugh, I looked down at my right knee. Peeled up one of the flaps of torn fabric. My poor knee was totally scuffed. I was bleeding! How fun–I was bleeding because of mac ‘n’ cheese. I poured some water on a paper napkin and started dabbing my knee through the fabric hole.

I turned to my roommate. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I fell.”

“What?” She frowned. “When? Where?”

“Outside,” I whispered. I showed her the hole in my pants. “I tore my pants.”

“Aw, no,” she said, “you love those pants.”

“Yeah. At least I saved the mac ‘n’ cheese.”

“What?”

I told her about what’d happened.

“That is pretty funny,” she admitted.

“Right?”

“You alright, though?”

“Nothing hurt, except my pride. And also my knee. But it’s fine.”

I took a breath. I knew my roommate had sewn a Christmas present for our neighbor. It was a sleeve for her Kindle, made out of dark green fabric with little red mushrooms on it. Very Hobbit-y fabric. Gears started turning in my brain. I might as well embrace the Hobbit-ness, right?

“Hey,” I said, “do you have any of that mushroom fabric left?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think you could sew on a patch?” I made a square with my fingers around my right knee. “Like, that big?”

“Totally.”

“Perfect.”

That settled it. I would go full Hobbit.

As I’m writing this, it’s almost been a year since that fateful night. I still love those pants–even more now than before. The patch is holding strong, and it really amps up the Hobbit vibe. Every time I see that little green square, I think of that night. I think of the mac ‘n’ cheese. And I remember to lace my boots.

Not every unfortunate turn needs to lead to a bad end. If I, with the help of my crafty roommate, can turn a painful tear in my favorite pants into a fun fashion opportunity, how much more can God work all things together for good?

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And that’s the truth.

Believe it or not, that was a true story. I repeat, a true story. That really happened.

Now, I made it into more of a story, of course. I didn’t type it up like a police report. That dialogue isn’t exactly word for word. I don’t remember every little move I made, and the pacing is perhaps a little faster than the actual event.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a true story.

That’s what creative nonfiction (CNF) is. It’s the truth told with all the sensibilities of fictional storytelling. It takes a real event–a nonfiction–and paints it in a creative way. Isn’t that fun? I’m sure you have a bunch of stories like that, just waiting to be polished up and thrown out into the world…

On that note…paid publishing opportunity!

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