I’ve lived in San Francisco for nearly ten years. In that time, I’ve met mostly people native to other locales. Locales with seasons. I never hear anyone say, “I miss sticky summers and walking into gnat swarms”, or “Black ice takes me back”. Usually it’s, “I miss Fall”. I do, too. So I made a pie.
Well not yet this year, but a few back. It was a love pie. The love moved on, but I do have a photo memory of a tasty baked good. I can live with that. The photo reminds me that what I miss of “Fall”, and other seasons, are reminders that life is transient – strung together cycles of fried fresh corn, tomatoes from vines braced with pantyhose, Mom’s caramel cake, Christine’s potatoes and onions, 10 types of apples, pumpkin bread, and all the countless things that tie me to distinctly different years in my life. “That was the year the cake fell, but tasted good anyway”, or “We used sweet potatoes instead of russet”, and so on. My belly is my sundial.