Reflections on the Twelfth Week of Winter – George and the Strawberry Pie

 

    Wednesday afternoon, while wind howled down West Creek Road and tops of towering maples bent back and forth like frenzied ballerinas, I turned on the tap and waited for the water to get ouch-hot so I could soak a bag of frozen Wells Wood strawberries. Fat cat George circled my feet looking for a dropped morsel.

    I reached down and patted his head. “You don’t like strawberries, George.”

    He gave me a wide, green eye, questioning glare.

    “Besides,” I said, “this pie is for Jennifer not you.”

    He yawned so I didn’t explain that I would be staying with Jennifer Friday night before the Jane Austen meeting about circulating libraries Saturday in downtown Cleveland. I’d emailed Jennifer to ask if me staying would be convenient, and she’d emailed back, “What would be cooler! I would love to have you stay.”

    George settled on the mat by the kitchen sink.

    I stepped over him repeatedly to collect ingredients, find utensils, and roll the crust. When the pie shell came out of the oven, the cookie sheet under the pie pan slipped from the potholder and banged against the oven rack. A two inch section of the fluted edge broke off the baked pie crust.

    “Good grief,” I muttered trying to reset the flaky pieces back though I knew they wouldn’t stick. Had I ruined Jennifer’s pie?

    Spence walked into the kitchen. “You could use superglue.”

    “I don’t want to poison anyone.”

    “It’s not toxic when it dries.”

    Instead of responding that I didn’t want to feed anyone plastic either, I told myself Jennifer wouldn’t care about the gap in the crust and offered the broken pieces to George.

    His nose quivered, his tail dropped, and he waddled away.

    I fitted strawberries on the pie shell, and defrosted juice dribbled out of them. Would the juice make the shell soggy? I spooned the cooked strawberry filling on top, covered the pie with wax paper, and covered the wax paper with aluminum foil. Figuring nothing else could go wrong, I tucked the pie in the back of the refrigerator to keep it safe.

   Thursday, Jennifer emailed, “My power is out and not predicted to be back until it’s too late for us so we are moving to Beth's house. I will send you her address and directions soon.”

    Yikes. A result of Wednesday’s windstorm no doubt. I counted people–Jennifer, her husband, their daughter Beth, Beth’s husband, two children, the speaker for the meeting, and me. Ten. I reached in the freezer for a bag of Wells Wood pumpkin puree and checked on George. He’d sprawled on the guest room bed which meant I might be able to make the two dozen pumpkin muffins without him interrupting.

When the aroma of pumpkin reached him, he plodded to the kitchen to check the floor. Nothing. He returned to the guest room to continue his nap.

    Friday afternoon, I packed. I had two containers for transporting pie–an old acer computer box and a fourteen inch diameter shallow basket with a two foot high handle. The two dozen muffins would travel better in the box so I lay an old blue towel in the bottom of the basket, set the twice covered pie on the towel, and folded the ends over the top. I put the basket on the floor next to my pile of travel gear and monitored George.

    He walked up to the basket, sniffed, then continued to his food bowl. After munching, he sniffed the blue towel again then settled down for a nap in front of the wood stove.

    The pie was safe.

    I sat down and organized my itinerary.

    Crinkle. Crinkle. Crinkle.

   I glanced up and gasped.

    George, preparing to nap, kneaded his front paws on the blue towel which crinkled the aluminum foil and wax paper beneath.

    “GEORGE!” I jumped out of the chair, grabbed him, and hugged him to my chest. Why hadn’t I packed the pie in the box?

    He went limp.

    Spence stopped tapping computer keys. “What’s the  matter?”

    “George stepped on the pie.”

    “Oh, I thought something bad happened like he’d swallowed a spider.”

    Didn’t Spence understand? “George is smooshing the pie I’m taking to Jennifer.”

    Spence pointed to the basket. “It’s a towel. Of course he’d step on a towel.”

    I pursed my lips and scowled. Would the pie have gouges or paw prints?

    I didn’t find out till after I’d driven through whiteouts on Pennsylvania back roads, hugged Jennifer in the cold outside her daughter’s house, talked with third grade Colin about his three seed science experiment, helped prepare salad, and discussed, with with four other Janeites during dinner, the possibility that Jane Austen had suffered from arsenic poisoning.

    I unwrapped the towel, pulled off the foil, and peeled away the wax paper.

    No paw prints. No gouges. Just a smooth strawberry-pink surface.

    I cut a slice. Defrosted juice hadn’t made the crust soggy. Maybe the pie had survived.

    Around a mouthful, Jennifer said, “It’s good pie.”

    I exhaled in relief. After hours of useless worrying, I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of my visit–stretching for yoga on the bedroom carpet in early morning light with Jennifer, playing in the kitchen with Newton, a four week old Morkie puppy, listening in Dunham Tavern’s restored red barn to three Jane Austen inspired presentations, and all.

    When I returned home, I set the basket, holding the empty pie pan wrapped in the blue towel, on the floor where I’d stacked my travel gear Friday.

    Tail wagging in a wide arc, George walked up to me for a pet then sniffed the basket. Within fifteen minutes, he’d climbed into the basket and settled on the blue towel.

    “He looks like he’s sitting on a nest,” Spence said.

   “He didn’t ruin my pie,” I said. “He’s fine.” I reached down and patted his head.