Peaches pulled off the trees, tender and warm.Lemon juice and ice water in a bowl,boil the skins off, drop in the cold water.
I am here. Flour dusting the table, fills in the knife scars,deep into the grain of the cypress.The table is one leg lower, from when the house leaned in.
Peaches macerating in sugar on the counter.I roll out the pie crust: flour, lard and salt.My hand is cut, stinging from the flour and lemon zest.
Roll, turn, roll, turn, fold over, roll, turn, roll turn.Fold over and over. Not too much or the dough toughens.Roll, push down, roll, roll, roll, and then cut carefully and lift.
Pies are easy, Jeanie told me. Easy as pie.I touched her purpled hand and she winced.Wrists are fragile, love, at this…