Top | Sugarspeak Baking
(post, Jenny Weber)
I wrote this last year after making my first cherry pie. I'm looking forward to a similar experience this summer: Here I am. A city girl. Born and bred in Manhattan and the Bronx. A city girl who rode her first horse in 2000 in Mississippi. Who didn't see her first cow up close and personal until a trip to California in 2003. A city girl who sat in front of her computer tonight, watching the first season of Weeds, with three bowls in front of her. The first had the cherries. The second for the discarded pits and stems. The third for the pitted cherries. No special tools. Just me, my hands, and the pointed edge of a can opener thrusting through the cherry and removing the pit. My hands covered in the red juice. Splattered all over the floor, my clothes, and dripping over the sides of the bowls. Bits of cherry flesh still taint the unders of my fingernails. My pie is cooling now. Made completely by my two tiny city girl hands. Even if it doesn't taste like I hope I can sit back, look at the pie, and know I made it from scratch. And I made it for someone. For everyone.