My dog Lily whines and looks up at me with her large amber eyes. She thinks we are taking her to the
river, and that makes sense because we are trudging through the bushes on the route
to where we usually go to cool off on a hot summer day.
But not on this quiet evening because my husband Phil and I have
a different more delicious objective:
To pick as many saskatoon berries as we possibly can.
I hadn’t noticed them until recently, when I took the time
to look up while carefully making my way through the trees to the water. The discovery was like finding buried treasure.
Instantly, I laid claim to our
find and worried that someone else would find out before we were able to
return. My fears were unfounded
though, as the berries were still intact when we arrived.
It doesn’t take much effort to pull the juicy purple berries
from the branches. They are ripe
and fall effortlessly into the palm of my hand. As we search for more of the succulent fruit, I think of my
mom and how much she would enjoy this.
I remember the story she likes to tell of my aunt and her finding something
similar beside a dusty road in North-Eastern Alberta. With no buckets to hold a bountiful chokecherry crop, they
improvised and used an old pair panty hose and a plastic lunch bag. By her account, they hauled in 80
pounds that day.
I can see why they would go to those lengths. I’m not the kind of person who spends
hours canning, baking and preparing food for the cold room. But something—maybe it’s my Mennonite
heritage—compels me to pick and keep picking. What if I miss a big juicy clump? The thought of even one berry being missed fills me with a
mild sense of panic and I find my self obsessively compulsively making sure
every berry is in my bucket.
The wind blowing gently through the trees and the sound of
the river lulls me into a trance-like state. Until Phil clears his throat and suggests that maybe we have
enough. I glance at my hands and they
look like I’ve been finger painting with blue and purple. Phil also has multiple bug bites up and
down his arms and legs, and Lily continues to whine. So regretfully, I close the operation down and make a mental
note to come back later, in search of more tasty treasure.
Back at home proudly looking at my haul, I realize I
actually have to do something with it.
So I turn to the only person I know who has decades of pie-baking
experience: My panty–hose filling
mom. She will be proud that I took
the initiative. But this time, instead
of just dropping off my loot and waiting like a spoiled child for that
scrumptious baking, I want to learn how to make a pie. I think of how much I take her for
granted, and I have to admit my dependence on her impressive baking and clothes-mending
abilities has resulted in an embarrassing lack of homemaking skills. It’s time to step up and practice
what I preach and try something new.
I arrive at my mom’s with a bucket of berries, two pie
plates and a pound of lard. She
starts the lesson by trying to do everything herself and I have to gently remind
her that it’s time for me to learn.
So, I obediently put in five cups of flour, a sprinkle of salt and most
of the lard. Later, I mix in an
egg and a tablespoon of vinegar. I
ask her what the vinegar is for and it’s like asking a politician a question. She is evasive and can only say she has
always done it that way and tries to change the subject. I make a mental note to find out later,
and then change my mind. Sometimes,
even in baking, there should be some mystery.
She tells me how to roll the dough out and place it in the
pie plate. Next, I clean the
berries and put them in a bowl where my mom tells me to put in some sugar. In her world, measuring is done with a nonchalance
taken from decades of practice, meaning, there are no exacts. Measuring cups are simply for taking
ingredients from one place and putting them into another. In fact, she often uses a coffee cup
and a regular spoon to “measure”. So
from what I can tell, I’m putting in over a cup of white, granulated sugar into
my pie. In her 80 years on this
earth, I don’t think there has been any real thought given to calories, fat or
gluten. And I have to admit it is
refreshing and very liberating.
It’s pie after all. If you
can’t enjoy a fully leaded treat, who wants to eat it then? It’s just not fun. Then I realize what is happening: I’m having fun. This is not the chore I thought it
might be, and I’m enjoying spending time with my mom. We put the top on the pies and then I help her cut some
apples to use in her pie.
We put them in the oven and clean up our mess. While we wait, I show her how to use
her smart phone. It takes a while
but I think she gets it and I hope she remembers how to use voice mail. Then I think of the pies, and all the
other baking and mending she has done for me over the years.
Maybe I should show her how to send a group-text.
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