Blueberry pie

Her friend often made fun of it. She would prefer to sit in front of the greasy oven on a small pillow, unable to tear herself away for even a minute. From loading the loaf in the preheated oven, with a small handful of water for some added steam, until she judged the moment ready to release it’s trapped heat she would sit there. No conversation, movie, or accidental bump resulting from other people’s kitchening could dislodge her until it was time.

I would like to say she was reasoning about her knowledge and intuition of the craft. Predicting the sourness of the flavor from her new flower-to-yeast formula. Guessing the thickness of crust. Worrying she had gone a potato too far. Cursing herself for eyeballing the salt again. Forming a mental model from previous observations and experiences, and trying to validate it with the colour of her creation.

But I asked her yesterday.

“Once, I put croissants in, and a blueberry pie came out.”