PARADISE PIE
No spring nor summer play has ever brought such grace as I have seen on one fall day.
Seems not to matter the place, nature gifts us her best face.
Autumn lingers on.
Like good poetry or a favorite song, it goes on.
A certain tenable comfort is found, in this, our season of death. So perfect, so beautiful it will take your breath.
Peter Smith.
Stepping out for my usual walk before dinner I can taste the fall air as I breathe in my good fortune. I am thinking this may be one of the finest days of Autumn I can recall. Glancing towards the horizon reminds me every-time how fortunate I am to be the current custodian of this land, about 200 acres give or take which has passed through my family for close to two centuries.
How wonderful the remaining light tells me the time letting me know I should take the longer option, perhaps a mile longer and on such an evening how could I not.
Maybe an opportunity for a chat with the lads , I expect they will be wetting a line down at the brook as they are everyday this time of year when the trout can run thick through the brook.
I can hear their voices , some excitement I think . Otherwise bad form, not the norm for an angler to stir such a racket. I Come up on them with a certain timing you could not plan, just as young Davey is playing a big one like he so often seems to do. He doesn’t use a net as has become the norm these days, he reaches for what I recognize as his Fathers old Hardy gaff of which I have seen many times in my early days fishing this hole with my old friend, Daveys Father Reginald. I do miss him as watching his son with such grace and skill land this large trout causes me to think of those years for a moment. Like his Father before him always on the first try, he makes his motion with his hand through the water and pulls the old boy out of the water, the hook of the gaff perfectly through this fine trouts gill. With equal grace he reaches for his lead tipped priest and gives just one perfectly placed bonk right between the eyes and slips him into the basket slung over his shoulder. In almost up to his chest he makes his way toward shore, he looks up and see’s I am there and offers a nod. Without pause Davey scoops up his tackle box off the bank and is on his way. Where are you going Davey, what’s your hurry boy? Sir it’s Miss Rose, she was baking pies today. If I arrive in time with this handsome trout for dinner, don’t think she will send me away. Good luck to you boy as he is already in full trot. Harvey and Bill just shake their heads. Harvey speaks up, I can tell you govna that fish beats anything I caught all year and I have been here every day for a fortnight. Harvey you well know he has that magic you just can’t buy when it comes to landing trout and I won’t be surprised to hear of the same result when applied to landing miss Rose.
Harvey with a disgruntled look on his face is sorting some knotted line as I carry on down my path. Good luck boys, I holler out maybe it’s Davey’s good looks, the trout just go to him, would explain how you lot struggle so! Either Harvey didn’t grasp the humor or was just too caught up with his knots. Bill just nodded, and mumbled in his cockney accent, “evenin Govna days not over yet as he was focused having just placed a beautiful cast, he is looking determined as the twilight was just beginning to show itself. Particularly still it was such a fine autumn evening. I was glad I decided to take the long way back as I chuckle a little about the scene at the Brook. On my return leg I am thinking of what masterpiece Leoni will have prepared for dinner on this Day as I know my timing will be perfect. I imagine she has glanced out the window looking for me knowing rarely am I late for dinner. I feel somehow whatever it is tonight I have earned it and as I approach the final turn l see the house awash with the warmth of light and can make out four figures through the kitchen window so I know my timing is perfect as was the entirety of my walk. It comes to me, is this not paradise as that most sought feeling of contentment washes over me. I reach for the door and while taking off my boots get a noseful of something unfamiliar but heavenly. Noticing the glorious chatter emanating from the kitchen this is with no doubt my paradise. I sit at the table and look at my family as my daughters whisper and giggle about Davey and Miss Rose after hearing the story. My wife smiles and says I hope there is something left for him as it was blackberry pie day today and not a soul in that village couldn’t smell them. I bought four she says with a blush, still warm and smelling like heaven, three blackberry and of course your blackberry apple that Miss Rose had put aside for you. My most favored pie. We almost ate a whole one at tea today, just the four of us she says. My daughters giggle and Bailey pipes up, actually Mother we did eat the whole thing and I feel no shame for it , i’m ready to eat another one now she states assuredly. “Well you’ll not get any of your Fathers with the apple” as I remembered last year getting up in the middle of the night for my third piece on the day and everyone knows I will always save a piece for my breakfast when I pour a spot of heavy cream on it. Oh my, I think no argument is available to suggest anything less than paradise as I am pleased I recognize it . Spoke to my family of it , reminding them how lucky we are for each other and the life that has been given to us. I am simply rolling around in it quietly, pleased that I know it when my other daughter interupts with “well maybe not as lucky as Davey if that trout paid off”. Leoni admonishes her for making such a statement as the room went silent for just a second before we all simultaneously began roaring with laughter.
. I dozed off a little later than is usual , had an extra glass of Port as I had opened one of my Fathers special vintages as my wife and I said very little but enjoyed ourselves immensely as each sip brought its own definition of heaven maybe slightly influenced with my knowledge of what will be ceremoniously presented to me at breakfast. I already can feel the stares of everyone at the table as they look upon me with full knowledge of that which I alone will enjoy. I will not share or be polite in offering a taste. Every effort will be made to sufficiently stain the corners of my mouth which I will proudly carry with me for most of the morning as all that see it will understand, respect will be given and not one word spoken of it. The season is short for the best of the blackberries and I will decline any other offerings of pie from any other source. In so doing relieve the potential of a lesser product than what Miss Rose is so capable to produce year after year detracting from my image of those moments of perfection. It dawns on me the importance of what I will now think of as tradition as I picture myself as a boy watching my Father before me enjoying the same pie from the same oven produced by Miss Rose’s Mother Elsy and Like her Mother before her still using that ancient oven which when tended to properly seems to offer the user an unseeable magic of its own. Already I look forward to next year when the ritual will repeat and give to me once again a certain unique pleasure I know not where else to find.
Peter Smith
