Pie

(Blogger has a new format. I'm trying to get used to it. This is a test post where I am playing with how to do photos, adjusting layout, etc.. They seem to publish much differently than they look in mock-up.  Please ignore! Sorry! Becca)

When I was a little girl, my grandparents had a strawberry farm. I'm partial to raspberries or blueberries, but strawberries will always evoke home. I remember walking among the low lying acres of plants, eating handful upon handful of berries. They were sun-warmed, running full of juice. There was a little grit from the ground dirt every once in a while.

They make such pretty divisions, even rows of white lines bursting from their centers. There is a hollow spot in the middle like a breath. The edge closest to the sun is heavy with honey. As a whole, each berry moves weight to air.

Adding rhubarb

Thicken. Sweeten. A little lemon. Cinnamon. Fragrance binds. All good things come together.

It weeps a little at the marriage. Sugar softens colors, turning them frosty pinks and soft greens. It is a fairy world.

Flour to separate. Flour to bind. Cast without thought, careless and perfect. Calligraphic.

The debate has always been how to work the pastry. If I push it to beauty, it will be tough. If I work it with a light hand, it will be light as snow but unattractive. Each time I must decide between pride and tenderness. Love or glory?

Butter of course. There is no other way.

Little finger places around the edges. Uneven. Flawed. It doesn't matter in the least if they are. I have loved those little finger places since I was a child. That someone's touch has made them, that someone left the shape of her attention has always been beautiful to me.

The juice dripped over the edges a bit. The soft scent of burned sugar. Berries have resigned in the heat, melded, become something altogether new.

Whipping cream. Vanilla. Sugar.

It melts like a dream in the morning light.