Pie. Say it aloud, and remember fresh, crisp apples, the warmth of cinnamon, the tang of lemon juice. Apple pie. Mmmm pie. Our little tree, the one along the driveway, is even more full of apples than it was last year. Last year was when we discovered that the tart and tiny apples in the garden were meant to be baked in to pies. They taste good fresh. They are crunchy, and flavorful. When sliced, sweetened, cinnamon seasoned, and tossed with lemon juice from the neighbor's tree, then baked under a crust... oh delight.
It's early for apples, and much too hot to be baking. Most apples ripen in autumn, but our apples are ready now, so we must oblige them.
You know what else tastes good with fresh lemon juice? Tequila, is one answer. But I digress.
Maybe I do not digress.
Last night, after pie, after tequila, I was writing beautiful stuff. I was composing in my head and I specifically recall asking Geoff to take notes, because I could not be sure I would remember my poetry in the morning. We had spent the evening in Nostalgia. Like a faraway land. We were remembering people and places and things we did; things we believed. We sometimes were a bit solemn, because we remembered solemn things, but mostly we were laughing. The air, the temperature of it, was perfect or nearly so. If it had been any cooler it would have felt good, but it might have reminded us of Christmas and it is too soon yet to be reminded of Christmas. If it were any warmer we would wish to be in hammocks, on vacation, near the water, and that's not possible yet either. I meant to record all my thoughts and the things that made us laugh and remember. I meant to, but I never did.