Derby Pie

Yesterday, I took pie to someone.

It took me a couple of tries to get my crust right. I go through phases of making pie. I need a little trial and error before I feel comfortable sending them out the door.

The pie I made was a Derby pie.

I got the recipe from a friend. She gave me a story with it too.

She told me how the pie became a favorite of her daughters.

As horse and rider gathered at Churchill Downs every spring, she would make this for her family.

This year, things were different. She'd had surgery. I can't imagine her doctors giving the okay to roll out dough and waltz around a kitchen.

So I took the recipe, held her story, and baked one for her.

I delivered a few slices to her doorstep yesterday.

It was good to see her on her feet.

I came home and did the usual.
Ate lunch.
Visited someone in the hospital.
Picked my oldest up from school.

And then, in the late evening, as the sun started to hide its face, I sat on our small porch stoop listening to a song by David Childers called "Blueberries."

I sipped Kentucky's finest from a jelly jar and watched my youngest dance with her fading shadow in the driveway.

I thought of her future. I thought of my friend, her spouse, and her daughter.

I thought of Derby pie and how I'll make it for the rest of my life.