It was the Monday farmers market and it was scorching hot. I was looking for sweet corn–and trouble. There among the succulent sugar plums, white peaches and apricots: one shallow plastic crate of raggedy sour cherries. Not even put in baskets. Warm to touch and sticky on my fingers, I scooped up the dregs of the season into a plastic bag. Then into my new favorite shopping bag with the four ears of corn, some Mirabelle plums, some jersey tomatoes and a whole lot of self control.
Last night, I washed and stemmed the cherries and placed them in a large glass jar then gurgled a liter and a half of vodka over it and left it to steep. I will strain this in a couple months and bottle it with a bit of sirop. I will splash it in prosecco as an apertivo, I will dribble it the fondue that comforts me in the dark, frigid months, and I will serve it to anyone who sits in my kitchen to sip. And my heart will dream of pie.