A Memory
The old gentleman sat on the worn floral sofa as he had for
the last 60 years. His face was solemn
as he peered into the kitchen. All was
quiet. She had prepared his last meal
there and her passing was deeply felt.
His heart felt broken, but he smiled as he envisioned her there at the counter
with her apron covered in flour, making her mother’s fried pie recipe. It was her blueberry-filled fried pies that
she loved to make for others. They were flaky
with just the right amount of crunch. A
pinch of salt, a portion of sugar and a whole lot of love went into each one. As she would brush her hair aside with the
back of her hand, a smudge of flour residue was left on her face. He almost chuckled at that thought. It truly was a labor of love as she carefully
rolled out the dough and cut it into triangles.
She then placed a generous dollop of homemade blueberry jam onto the
flattened triangle and placed another triangle atop of the jam. She took her fork and sealed along the edges
all the way around each one. Not only
were they delicious, but her pies were charming. After all the pies were assembled, she got
her cast iron skillet hot with sizzling butter.
The pies were fried to perfection. The buttery pastry would melt in his
mouth and the sweet blueberry filling would burst forth onto his tongue. He remembered how they had gone together to
pick the blueberries at a local farm together and it warmed his heart. He saw
that only two fried pies of the last batch she had made remained on the platter
under the dome. He knew they were the
very last ones. The sun streamed in on
the lovely pies, and he knew just what he would do. The minister was coming over for a visit soon. He would brew some coffee, and they would
each have a fried blueberry pie. It
would be a special tribute to her, as she would have wanted him to share them. Afterall, he still had the memories
associated with the fried pies. That
memory will never go away.
Tammy Harvey
5/19/2025
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