Each year I have pie at Colleen’s place. The tennis twins are invariably there. This year, Blake didn’t make it because he was in the middle of a tournament–he sent his little sister, Atticus instead. Alexandra was not convinced Atticus was old enough for such an occasion, but to my mind she was a lovely addition. As usual, Arlon used the occasion to try to wheedle out my pastry making secrets. (I have none really. Just make the same pie 30 times in a row for several years during the hottest month of the year and what you get is common sense about pie). Denise ate silently bemused by the pastry nerds. Maria quietly ate two slices (hers and Atticus’). Second slices were had, but not before we saved a piece for Michael, the absent patriarch of pie. We talked a little more about the recent pie tour of Maine (best blueberry pies ever).
Now I should tell you about how, after our first encounter three years ago, at six years old, Alexandra and Blake decided they too were food artists. Then last year on their way back to tennis camp in the taxi there was a conversation about what distinguished me from them as food artists. It was agreed that they didn’t have a pie basket (the basket has artistic special powers) and Blake pointed out I had great shoes. Shoes are important. Everyone knows shoes make an artist.
A gift for the empty basket from the kids.