Posted Monday, May 6th, 2013
At midday Hailey inspects the blueberries in the green plastic basket. The sign reads: FRESH.
“Good. I will not pay that kind of money for old fruit. My pie will be made from the best,” she says as she and her kids return to the mini-van.
At home the brown and bruised are tossed into the garbage disposal.
She turns on her computer and searches for the right file: a scanned recipe passed down from mother and daughter for generations and now altered for the state of the art convection-oven. The pie is ready in minutes.
At dinner, she gives her husband the largest slice, the kids each a good piece and she takes the thinnest as she is watching her figure.
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At sunset Helena sorts through the blueberries her daughter hands her in a wicker basket.
"They come from the lower bog just footsteps from the lake,” her daughter announces with glee.
Yes indeed, fresh! Helena thinks. She will not make today’s pie with yesterday’s fruit. The brown and bruised she’ll feed to the pigs in the morning.
This pie: made from a handwritten recipe passed down to her from her mother will be baked in a dependable wood-burning stove.
At dinner, Helena slices the pie equally saving one for the circuit-preacher.
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Under a full moon Halona picks blueberries off the tender green vine along the stream that leads to the big sea, water.
"Fresh," she says lovingly to her papoose. "We should give thanks.”
The brown and bruised she’ll dry and save for winter. The ripest she'll wrap in dough made of stone-ground grain and rainwater, then roast it over an open flame. She is anxious for the future so she can share this preparation with her daughter.
She and her brave will share a bite and their child will lick the juices off their fingers.
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