Sour Cherries, Part Two (Because I Know the Suspense is Killing You)

Finally, I found some jarred sour cherries at an enormous grocery store in Buffalo. I bought some, brought them home, and baked a pie. It was good, very good, even, but it was not transcendent. It didn't come close to the pie I'd had at the potluck. I couldn't quite talk myself into the exorbitant price of the mail-ordered frozen cherries, and as I lived uptown, and did not frequent the greenmarket yet, I didn't know that for a slightly less exorbitant price, sour cherries could be had for a few weeks each year right here in Manhattan.

About nine years ago, we bought a little farmhouse in Easton, Connecticut, about an hour out of the city, where we live. The house had a nine-car garage, for my husband, and enough land for me to do what I like to do on the weekends, which is grow things, and cook with them. One of the first things I did when we moved in was research sour cherry trees; I suspected if they grew so well in Michigan, they'd manage quite nicely in the northeast.

And I was right. We put in six trees that first year, knowing they would take several years to bear fruit. Because we don't use any chemicals in our gardening, and didn't spray them, the first years the trees did bear fruit, birds and insects got almost all of them. A few years ago, though, I had enough for a pie: one pie. It was the best pie I have ever made, and it was the best pie I have ever eaten. The past two summers, the weather has not been ideal for cherries. I had enough for a pie and a few jars of jam one year, another year we were out of the country when the trees bore fruit, and we missed them altogether.

But last weekend, when we drove up to the house, the bright red cherries were visible as soon as we rounded the corner, from all the way up the street. I had been waiting weeks, maybe even months, and when Lily and I ran to investigate, it was even more glorious a display than I'd anticipated. Each tree was covered; the fruit was either perfectly ripe or almost so, meaning we needed to harvest half of it right away, the other half the following weekend. Ben brought us a ladder; we brought a basket to share. And then we picked.

Lily climbed up the ladder to pick the higher cherries. I picked the lower ones, too high for her to reach while standing. We filled the basket again and again, transferring the fruits of our labor into Ziplock bags. All I could think about as I picked was pie. And jam, too, but mostly pie.

Tonight, I pitted the first bag and sealed it, placing it in the freezer for an unexpected treat sometime later in the year. Tomorrow, with my rendered leaf lard from the greenmarket, Lily and I will make the crust, bake a pie. Possibly two. And although my back aches from standing at the kitchen counter and pitting all those cherries, I will do it again tomorrow, and as many times as it takes to pit every single cherry.

At one point, as we picked, I stopped to watch Lily, thrilled to be allowed so high on the ladder, deliberately evaluating cherries for ripeness, picking them carefully off the stems, depositing them gently on top of the growing pile in the basket. She caught me. "Why are you watching me, Mama?"

"Because you're doing such a good job," I said. "And because you look so happy." She considered this, then nodded, a bit solemnly.

"It's cool that we made these," she said.

"Yes," I agreed. To be honest, nothing I have ever grown has given me as much pleasure as this first whole thriving crop of sour cherries.

"And I really want to taste the pie," she added.

Amen.