Cherry Handpies

A cherry pie routinely sat atop the counter that was created by the dishwasher.   The kitchen appliance that appeared in my grandparent’s kitchen one random year because someone somewhere thought it necessary that two aging folks needed a dishwasher after 70 some years of living without one. It wasn’t the sort that is stationary and built into cupboard space.  It was on wheels and needed to be rolled from its space between the fridge and the door leading to the second floor to the sink, blocking the circular path around the kitchen table.  When not in use it sat below a chalkboard where grocery lists were written, doodles were doodled,  and tomato bug killings were tallied – all requiring quite the reach once the dishwasher came into existence.  I remember using the dishwasher for a single post-Christmas dinner and in reaching back to my childhood memory, it did not quicken the process of cleaning the kitchen prior to opening presents.  I believe it fell from my grandma’s grace because it did not handle the healthy amount of iron that was in my grandparent’s water (they had well water and it turned anything white a magnificant orange and had a way of blocking and corroding pipes and lines).  It eventually became another piece of furniture in the kitchen, another counter top.  A place for pie.

I have been channeling grandma lately and come to think about it, this month marks two years of living without her and yet it seems so much longer most days.  I think it is because her days of bustling around the kitchen were gone many years before she left this world.  The kitchen is where I place her when I think of her; smelling of Joy dishsoap, her blouse wet from a constant dish washing ( yes, the dishwasher…), a cotton apron wrapped around her waist, and wearing once white tennis shoes older than any of her grandchildren- her feet were a constant bother and when you find a pair that causes minimal pain you hold on to them. With failing eyesight, her days in the kitchen, cooking and feeding her loved ones, were stolen from her but then again maybe she was okay passing that duty on to her daughters and myself.   Letting go of her independence is what really pissed her off.  Not being able to cook safely for herself really got her goat.

This wasn’t meant to be an ode to my grandma but cherry pie and that farmhouse are synonmous.  Me picking at the points of filling overflow that once it set and cooled, became tacky and delicously jammy.  I learned to delicately pry these pieces off without disrupting the crust too much – getting a bit of pie before dinner.  I guess that is where the dishwasher comes to mind.  I stood, my hip leaning against its side, mindlessly picking at cherry pies my entire life.  And this morning, as I drank coffee and waited for these cherry handpies to cool before packing them up for work, I mindlessly stood leaning against my dishwasher,  picking at the pools of jammy filling that overflowed its crusty bounderies.

Some habits die hard.