Two words. Cherry pie. Fresh Montmorencies. I have a wartime supply in my freezer. Pitted, born to be baked into a pie.
It is the lodestar of my compass. A cornerstone of my diet. Oh, when did sweet and sour find each other, opposites that, when thrown together, highlight the essence of each? The flavor soothes, it eases, it settles me down.
My husband has a genius for dodging bad news, confrontations, adversarial voices, and the condition that is commonly called reality. He doesn’t let the unpleasant time pressures of his consulting job or the unresolved situations of children into his temperament. Doubt and worry, along with garden care and anything that goes wrong with the home, or cars, are my department.
I am baffled by his inability to see the obvious; he is baffled by my inability to see past it. So I bake pie.