I cannot tell a lie I love Blueberry pie.
It is a combined work of art & nature . To me it epitomizes the multiple harvests of a New England summer. For some it might be the first ear of sweet corn dripping with butter or picking the first strawberry warmed by the fourth of July sun but my touchstone is that feast in a dish: BLUEBERRY PIE.
Even in my formative years in NYC the pie stood out. My Mother would produce that seasonal delight direct from her oven in our little kitchen on 181st. In those days the blueberries came from a store in square cardboard baskets and they were good, real good but living in the country the experience is vastly different.
Traditionally my friends Scott & Francine have these prolific bushes adjacent to their house which produces a huge volume of sweet berries. So many in fact that in high season one can stand in one spot in front of a bush and easily fill a bucket. Francine arrived yesterday with a bag full of at least five pounds and from this we created the ultimate pie. No doubt it will taste as good at looks.
The endless summer remains elusive but the memory of the annual blueberry pie remains as strong as the heady aroma of freshly mowed lawn.