I baked you a pie. Come into my cabin kitchen for a slice and a chat by the wood cookstove.
My West Virginia grandmother, Maudie, taught me to make pies and biscuits and to garden, can, and hang my laundry to dry in the fresh mountain air. Standing elbow-to-elbow at her big white enameled drainboard sided sink is where I learned how to cut a sugar cookie, what seeds to plant, how to get (and keep) a man, and that rum doesn’t count as alcohol if it’s drenching your fruit cake.
When I was 21, I moved into what would