Sometimes being happy is easy as pie
It is one o’clock. I’ve just finished my lunch, or at least a part of my lunch, an 80-calorie yogurt. With the yogurt cup disposed of, I’ve taken the strawberry rhubarb pie that I baked on Monday from the refrigerator. It’s a beauty, if I do say so myself.
I was tired on Monday. I had bought strawberries on sale, had to use the rhubarb that my friend Terry generously shared with me, and could have used store-bought crust. Those refrigerated crusts are quite good, actually – flaky with the right amount of butter or what tastes like butter. My spouse and I prefer a crust that is thicker. We both like the rim of the pie crust to be generous, strong enough to use as a handle if the filling of the pie is firm enough. In the end, the thought of this kind of crust won out over tired.
Earlier in the day I had covered the sliced strawberries with sugar. The result was a bowl of strawberries surrounded by a luscious red juice. With this much juice, this pie would require a bit more tapioca. The result spoke for itself. The filling was firm; the strawberries and rhubarb were nestled in custard of sorts made by the sugar, tapioca and strawberry juice.
Yes, it was a good pie. I cut a piece that was about an eighth of the pie. It held together perfectly. Visual appreciation finished, it was time to enjoy.
This would not be a rushed, get-it-done experience. It was time to savor, to appreciate.
With great ceremony, I placed a healthy slice on one of my rarely-used Limoges dessert plates. I made tea in my grandmother’s brown teapot and poured it into a lovely flowered Bone China cup I also rarely use. Rarely is actually more often than I have used Bone china cups but I can’t think of another descriptor that fits the picture.
It tasted almost as good as a strawberry rhubarb pie in June should. It was very good, but the strawberries were from somewhere else, just a tad less sweet than locally-ripened berries. And no amount of added sugar can make up for the exquisite taste of really ripe strawberries that you picked yourself. Local berries are about two weeks behind schedule, but when they are ripe, if the rhubarb holds out, the results will be … memories of that heavenly taste bring a smile to my face.
So, you ask, what is so important about a pie?
First of all, I made it myself. It was a good thing. Not a momentous thing, but good. Better than dusting or vacuuming or sweeping the porch.
Since life is so full of the angst of must-do chores and politics and religion and obligations and all of the flotsam and jetsam that has accumulated over time it is important to find something that is a time out, something that is soul-satisfying. For many, it is a hobby, a visit with friends, a favorite television show, meditation or a really good piece of pie … which is a kind of meditation if you approach it right.
It will not cause a riot, endanger the welfare of subsequent generations, increase my taxes or generally add to the burdens of the day … well, if I eat too much of said pie, it will add pounds, but that is another discussion.
I am happier than I was before eating my pie, and it gave me the inspiration to write about a small pleasant thing in a world that is full of bullies and confrontation and stuff that I wish would go away.
Now, off to work in the garden. It’s a good day.
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
