Little in life is certain, at least in my life anyway. I feel as though we are all of us on a roller coaster with no idea where we are going or when the ride will pause and allow us to catch our breath. But there are a few things that are unchanging, that are clear and certain. Little islands on which I may depend.
The comfort of a tasty pie made at the end of a hectic day. The gentle quiet that fell over us as we cut apples, added blackberries, glazed the pastry with milk and sugar. The serenity of watching a loaf rise, of knowing the eating of it is not far away but enjoying the delicious anticipation. The sure sense of life coming through old fashioned ingredients. Butter, flour, milk come fresh from a cow thick and creamy to a jar in my kitchen.
I don’t know much but I do know this, bread warm from the oven is the most comforting food in existence. Cream skimmed, yellow and thick, from the top of a jar of raw milk is irresistible and a pie made by my two boys, each working and giving what his age and experience would allow, is the sweetest pie imaginable. Not just because of the delicious fruit and mellow brown sugar, but because of the soft peace in which it was made.
Perhaps some of that peace found itself into that pie, adding warmth to each mouthful. Just as the memories of these moments, these slivers of bliss, will warm me long after the pie and the day are gone.