Pie reminds me. Way back when. The first famous person who paid me (who’s name starts with P). His friend, also famous, was snack-hunting and found me in clean up, wiping down stainless steel. Circularly shining the twenty feet of counter. The longest counter I had wiped to date, not since…they’ve doubled and tripled and it seems gone on longer.
A counter is a measure of grandeur. My favorite, still, being a black one copied from Como.
He was hankering for apple.
And sort of grunted in frustration that it would be so easy if someone, (someone?), would just pick up a pack of the ones you can pop in and toast.
And walked away.
I glanced around and — almost as if the apples and butter were laughing — it was made.
Next time he came the smell hit first. He said, ‘What? You found some? Sweet.’
I whispered, ‘No. I made one.’
‘With what? Whole apples?’
With one hand under pie and another on Brigham’s, I walked past to my client.
Where he sat, stunned and smiling.
I’ll see you tomorrow, I said.
The ice cream with two spoons stuck in.