Even though decades may have passed and the early morning knock is unexpected, friendships formed over a plate of tamales and a sweet cherry pie are quick to rekindle.
Our old neighbor knocked on our door the other day.
We had just returned from a three-day trip to Boise, Idaho, (1,691 miles) the night before, pulling into the driveway just in time to watch the 10 o’clock news, so we were not quite ready for visitors that early in the morning. And by early, I mean about 9:30.
He knocked; and as I scrambled to finish dressing, he rang the doorbell. I opened the door to a vaguely familiar face that I couldn’t immediately place. He was wearing the shirt of a window company, so my first, fleeting instinct was to be annoyed that someone selling something I wasn’t going to buy was disturbing the post-journey morning stillness.
“Erin?" he said. "Remember me? I used to live next door.”
I guess the familiar voice or the context of the house or the way he said my name with certainty or just the fresh air sneaking in through the open door kicked the connection out of the slumbering darkness of my memory.
“Brett?” I asked with some surprise. And he nodded and grinned and suddenly it was hard to believe that 20 years (by his reckoning) had past since we last saw him. “Oh my gosh, Brett?”
The little Cape Cod-style house to the west of our house has seen a steady parade of tenants since my parents bought this place about 30 years ago. Some of them have owned the house, but others have been renters. This is a college town, and students crowded into little houses off campus is de rigueur. Sometimes our neighbors are emerging adults figuring out life with lots of cars and loud music and an open-door policy for their many friends. Sometimes young couples with jobs or new professionals have taken up residence there until they could save enough pennies to buy their own place. Sometimes — well, only twice that I can remember — families have lived there.
A friend who worked with me at the newspaper planted his growing family in that little house for a few years, which was fun and kind of odd at the same time. They left after baby No. 4, after they figured out there was some possibility of making a little money by renting out the house and living rent-free in a buddy’s place while he was out of the country for work.
He told me that what he remembered was my mom making them a pie. A cherry pie, he said, patting his stomach as if satisfied with a recent treat. 'I think that was the best pie I ever ate,' he said, and although there’s really no way to confirm that, it does seem like a believable claim knowing he still remembers it even though it’s been more than 20 years since he took a bite.
But Brett and his family — wife Diane, two teens and a little girl who visited in the summer — stayed. I don’t remember now how long they lived there, but I remember being very disappointed when their landlord rejected their offer to buy the house.
After living in a neighborhood full of student rentals for so long, I’m not sure my standards for a good neighbor are too high. If asked, I would probably tell you a good neighbor is someone who will keep the lawn mowed, who will be kind to the dog (I’m pretty sure there's always been a dog), and who will pass a brief moment with superficial pleasantries if we meet at the mailbox.
But Brett and his family were more than that. They were/are the kind of people anyone would want for neighbors. They did all that. And more.
Their son, Daniel, used to come over and wash our cars in exchange for date money. He used to scoop our sidewalk when it snowed and chop the ice out of the gutter in front of the driveway. “Well, my mom doesn’t like it when that happens at our house,” he told me once, “so I figured you wouldn’t like it either.” Brett used to edge our lawn.
Daniel is now married, living in California, working for a national plumbing chain that his father-in-law owns. He’s the father of two little ones. Their daughter, Stacy, nearly out the door when they lived next to us, designs cakes and lives with an “artist.” Alyssa, the summer interloper who had the uncanny knack of knocking on our door just as we were sitting down to dinner, offering to walk our dogs, is now a mother married to a man Brett said was just like him.
Brett, now living in the town 10 miles south of here, was in the neighborhood on a job. The window company’s van was parked two doors down. He said he recognized my dad’s car so he was pretty sure we still lived here. “I just wanted to come over and say hi to your dad,” he said, and I told him my dad is going to be 92 at the end of July and has some memory issues.
“Will he remember me?” he asked.
I shrugged, because it’s anyone’s guess from day to day, and I invited him in.
My dad was still pretty tired from our trip and a little confused that morning, having this familiar stranger standing on the porch so early in the morning, and he thought — for whatever reason I don’t know — that Brett was here to buy our house, but he said he remembered him. He asked about Daniel. He laughed about the artist boyfriend. He asked Brett to stop in again.
I remember once Brett brought us a plate of homemade tamales, a rare treat in our super-white family. But he told me that what he remembered was my mom making them a pie. A cherry pie, he said, patting his stomach as if satisfied with a recent treat.
“I think that was the best pie I ever ate,” he said — and although there’s really no way to confirm that, other than to take him at his word, it does seem like a believable claim knowing that he still remembers it even though it’s been more than 20 years since he took a bite.
So I’m thinking today about the people who move in and out of our lives, engaging with us in the peripheries of our journey, impressing us at arms-length.
I live in a neighborhood, maybe even a town, that is beautiful but transient. Mostly you don’t watch kids grow up here, you don’t share milestones, you don’t see neighbors grow old. If we’re lucky, the college students who rent these houses stay through graduation. I try to make myself believe that this is a friendly town, because that’s what the Fort Collins PR-machine tells me is true, but pretty much that has only been my experience on a superficial level.
Someone who takes up residence in your life, touches you, wants to stay, is a rare gift.
I’m thinking today, with gratitude, about people who leave a lasting impact on our lives with a small but powerful act of kindness. Like washing a car. Or walking a dog. Like edging a lawn. Like recognizing a car parked in front of a house in a neighborhood that once upon a time was theirs, then stopping and knocking on the door.
Like a plate of tamales. Or a cherry pie.
The pie
My mom used to make cherry pies. She was kind of well-known for them. She made them for neighbors and friends and virtual strangers who gathered at parties my dad organized for his work. They had a simple crust (although she was the first person to introduce me to the charms of a decorated crust), sour cherries and a touch of almond flavoring. She knew just how to roll out the dough, just how much sugar and cinnamon to use, just how long to keep it in the oven. Those pies never disappointed.
This is not that pie.
When I was at the grocery store the other day, I noticed that sweet bing cherries were on sale and I wondered if people ever use sweet cherries in a pie. Of course they do — just not my mom. So I bought a bag, looked up some recipes online, and sat down at the kitchen table to pit and halve 2 pounds of little red fruit. (I understand there is such a thing as a cherry pitter; I do not have one of those but I think it might be worth the investment.)
This is a tasty pie — based mostly on a recipe from Martha Stewart who I assumed is an unimpeachable pie authority — but there are things I would do differently, if I made it again, that I believe would make it better. Better than Martha. I would start by cooking the cherries in a saucepan on the stove until they are slightly softened before putting them in the pie crust. Because the original recipe does not call for this step, the fruit was still firm even after more than an hour in the oven. A softer bite, I believe, would enhance the pie, but I guess that’s just a matter of individual taste. Also I believe a simple pre-cook — or at least including all the juice that leaches from the fruit after the sugar and cornstarch have been added — would improve the juiciness of the fruit and thus the pie. Again it’s a matter of preference, but I like the fruit to stick together, like buddies, or glue.
Connection, after all, is what pie is all about.
The recipe
Sweet Cherry Pie
Flour, for rolling
Pie crust for a double-crust pie
2 pounds bing cherries, pitted and halved
½ cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 large egg yolk, beaten with 1
tablespoon water, for egg wash
1 tablespoon turbinado or granulated sugar for sprinkling
Preheat oven to 400 degrees, with rack in lowest position. On a floured surface, roll one disk of dough to a 14-inch round and place in a 9-inch pie plate. Trim dough to a 1-inch overhang all around. In a large bowl, combine cherries, sugar, cornstarch and lemon juice; toss until cherries are coated. Pour into prepared bottom crust.
(Alternately, toss cherries with sugar. Place cherries, with about a half cup of water, in a medium-sized sauce pan. Over medium heat, bring fruit to a boil. Reduce heat and allow cherries to simmer until the fruit is softened. Remove from heat. Allow to cool; then add cornstarch and lemon juice and mix until the cornstarch is absorbed by the liquid. Pour into the prepared bottom crust.)
Roll out top crust and place on top of the cherries. Trim so that the crust hangs over pie plate rim by about an inch. Tuck under rim of bottom crust and press to seal. Crimp with a fork or by using your fingers to create a zigzag or rick-rack pattern
Using a pastry brush, lightly brush the top crust with egg wash and sprinkle with turbinado sugar. (I sprinkled the top crust with a cinnamon-sugar mixture because I think all pies are better with a little cinnamon, and I usually skip the egg wash. If you like a shiny crust, however, make sure you cover all of the crust.)
Place pie on a rimmed baking sheet. Bake until the filling is bubbling rapidly all over, 60 to 70 minutes. If you notice the crust browning too quickly, tent with aluminum foil at about 40 minutes. Remove from oven and let it cool on a wire rack for about three hours. It should be cooled to room temperature before serving.
Simple PIE CRUST
Mix together 2 cups sifted flour and 1 teaspoon salt. With pastry blender cut in 1/3 cup (plus 1 tablespoon extra if using hydrogenated shortening) until the mixture looks like meal. Cut in the remaining 1/3 cup plus 1 tablespoon shortening until particles the size of giant peas form. Sprinkle with 4 tablespoons water, one tablespoon at a time, mixing lightly with a fork until all the flour is moistened. Gather dough together in your hand so that it cleans the side of the bowl. If the dough doesn’t all come together, add more water, one tablespoon at a time, until all the flour is worked into the dough. Press into two equal-sized balls and roll out for the pie, or wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to three days.
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