Brothers From Another Mother
A is not to be denied. But I had to budget my cherries to promise her pie even a single pie. A careful measuring ounce by ounce squeezed out the special pie for the select few to meet on A’s terrace on Saturday night.
“Oh Man!” started the barrage of instant messaging. You can guess the rest. Too many people. Some admittedly not pie worthy. When she knew for certain that I could not bring an extra pie, her suggestions turned darker. Perhaps I could come early. Perhaps we should hide the pie and eat it secretly in the kitchen. Would that be so bad? Would it?
On Saturday morning, I baked her pie—the one destined to be divided like loaves and fishes but with no hope of divine intervention.
But then it seems a farmer in Finger Lakes heard our prayers and sent his sour cherries to the Union Square Market. The heavens spoke: A is not to be denied.
The second pie came out of the oven hours after the first one of the day. Its cherries were grown hundreds of miles from the first pie’s cherries. Separated before birth, one might say. Brothers from another mother. Raised by different farmers, picked by different hands. Yet twins or maybe cousins—identical cousins, all the same. They piled into the basket, on to the subway and up to the twentieth floor terrace to celebrate the summer’s reprieve. Pie for all. Pie a plenty.
And even secret second slices and also leftover pie for Nan.