Pies. Berry, apple, peach, pumpkin, chicken pot, doesn’t matter what’s inside for me it’s the crust. I love the crust. I have loved the crust since I was four years old, probably before that even. This particular time (Thanksgiving) when I was four years old my mom made two pies, I watched her make them. It seemed like it took all day. They were finally done and cooling on the kitchen table and she scurried off to get ready for something (Thanksgiving at Grandma’s) leaving the great smelling pies all warm and smelling great.
Something came over me, compelled by an ancient memory, a past life in Paris perhaps, I broke every bit of the crust off the edge of both of those pies my mom lovingly made with her own hands and put them in my pockets like Lucille Ball stashing chocolates from the conveyor belt. Then I crawled under the table where it was safe and ate them. Mom lacked a sense of humor.
I made the Fresh Pies sign this week for the new pie table at my Trader Joe’s.
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