Practically speaking, the
Pippins were superfluous.
Pears were the point of my errand. But
petite and tart,
puckered and gnarled, the
Pippins seduced me at the market. I
picked up four. At home, I
posed them on the windowsill, their tubby sides
propped together while I
pastry nest. Floured the dough,
patted it into shape,
pressed it into a shallow green bowl.
Picking the apples from the sill, I
pared them, one by one, their little jackets
peeling in a heap. I tucked them in and
pricked the crust, resigned myself to
patience while they
perfumed the kitchen. When the pie emerged,
plump and bubbling, I
polished it off.