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Posts Tagged ‘suckling pig’

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This is the time of year when my uncle’s cherry tree would be starting to sprinkle its petals like powdered sugar over the yard. The tree wasn’t a tidy, perfect, Martha Stewart-esque magazine deal. You’ve seen those, the kind that are practically sparkling in some verdant pasture. This was planted a few yards from the tree house, next to the driveway, and almost hidden among other shrubs and trees. But those cherries—sour ones—made the best pies and cobblers I’d ever tasted.

Once my uncle lost interest in harvesting them, some ten years ago, he’d let us go over with a ladder to get them down before the birds or rain got to them. The pie above is reminiscent of the tree itself—not perfect—but like so many things in life, it was galaxies better than perfect.

A few years ago my uncle sold the house he and my aunt and cousins had lived in since the early 60s. The current owners must not have known what they had, because they took down the tree house and my uncle’s plantings and the tree with them. The yard is now tidy and prettified. But I remember it all, and can still taste those pies.

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Wildly gorgeous lilacs that still grow at the edge of the honey guy’s driveway.

Next stop on the sweet memory train is the above. I finally turned into the low gravel driveway one day to look around. What I found was an old man in an older building, in a small room lined with honey jars. He’d collected it all. The hives—weathered, seafoam-green wooden painted boxes—were stacked like lopsided sandwiches the end of the steeped gravel driveway. There were no decorations on the walls; it was plain shelving, the jars, and him. It might as well have been his garden shed.

And I never got his name, but haven’t forgotten his Steven-Wright delivery.  “This is the best,” he said, handing me a jar of blackberry honey. The local bees knew where to source the berries—there was a blackberry field just a few yards away. And the guy was right—that honey was impossibly spicy-fragrant with blackberries. “You’ll be back for more,” he said.

A month later I walked in and and he didn’t even say hello. Just looked at me and smirked, “Told you you’d be back for more.”

It’s now a women’s clothing store or some such nonsense, because there aren’t enough of those in the world while we can barely cross a Wegmans without tripping over jars of local blackberry honey, right?

Grr. And to further emphasize: Grrrrr.

Never had anything like that blackberry honey, before or since.

 

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Last stop is another regret, but thank goodness I had the foresight to take pictures before the owner ripped out his Christmas tree farm way off the road within an old-growth pine forest in order to build a cluster of houses with aluminum siding.

This place was a dream. A pine-soaked, wood-smoky dream. Your gloves and boots would be stuck with sap and pine needles and your coat would be dusted with the remains of funnel cake and then you got to take home a Christmas tree. The look and the feel and the smell of this place—I swear it was like Scandinavia or Iceland (wait–is it Iceland that’s covered with ice and Greenland that’s covered with green or the other way around? Crap.), not that I’ve ever been to either place. But that was the thing about it—you were there anyway. It was a dream. The particulars didn’t matter. That’s a picture of the view on the drive in to the center of it all, and the owners’ kids’ tree house overlooking the lake. Can you feel it?

They had a suckling pig twirling around on a spit. You’d pay for your tree at a cute little shed and the girl would give you loose apples to take home. And their hot chocolate was served in yet another cute little shed amid a bunch of others that sold greenery and the funnel cake. The hot chocolate was basic stuff, but it was creamy and hot and good; and the experience of drinking it just amplified the delicious sensory explosion going on around and above.

What are you still tasting?

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