The third blizzard of the year is whooshing around our windows. And we are eating cherry pie for breakfast. Eating cherry pie has many pleasures, not least the crunch of the sugared glaze and the tartness of the cherry zinging out of the sweet sauce. My favorite pleasure this morning, though, is remembering the July day we picked the cherries at our favorite farm.
I can't cut you a slice—as much as I wish I could. But I can share these memories of blue skies and glowing fruit and grass so green it throbbed.
Summer itself seems baked into a crackling crust on this day when everything is white—the sky, the ground, the wind itself. To remember the colors of summer is as sweet as the pie itself.