“Rustic” might be too generous a description for the cabin of plywood walls built around an enormous chimney of water-rounded stones and hand-packed cement. The only other heat source in the rented beach house was the battered electric stove in the kitchen, and after 5 days with only books and board games, I decided that appliance was going to be my best friend for a more stimulating pastime. The empty lot across the pot-holed road that measured the hundred yards to the beach was aggressively protected by blackberry vines, teasingly offering sweets amongst the thorns. I found a soup pot and headed into the mid-afternoon sunshine to face certain injury collecting only the very best berries. An hour later, with the berries gently washed, I performed the magic that would make a light, flaky, and beautiful two-crust pie. My world became solely about measuring, mixing, rolling, transferring, and repairing, with no rules of time or obligation. I gently stirred flour, sugar and cinnamon into the plump berries, poured the deep purple mixture into the perfected crust, embellished my work of art with dots of butter, and buried all those wonders beneath a carefully-applied top crust. A slash with a sharp knife and sprinkle of sugar provided the finishing touches, and into the oven it went. An hour later, gratified and eager, I reached into the oven with gloved hands for the delicate prize. Its berry-scented steam ascended from the cut in the top crust, and a shining purple glaze blanketed one edge, where the filling had flowed out and dripped over the side. Then, in a world slowed by disbelief, I watched as the perfect golden disc, sparkling with sugar, slid slowly off my left glove, the heavy glass dish hitting the floor and expelling all of its contents. Velvety purple juice pooled on the old and curling linoleum, the delicate crust scattered into flaky shards. I gasped. I wailed, I railed at the universe, I cursed the gods, I banged the top of that innocent stove. For an hour, on my hands and knees, raging, “Why?!,” and pounding the floor with my fist, I cleaned up the evidence of this pointless, violent end. As I stood up from the job to see the sun setting over the ocean, my demoralization crystallized into angry rebellion. I grabbed my soup pot and marched out into the dimming light to gather the second-best berries. Victory came late that night, but it was sweet.
