a peck of pears and pie.

I had an intimidating amount of fall fruit in my house this week, including, but not limited to, a peck of pears, which is, I have learned, variously 2 gallons, 8 dry quarts, or 16 dry pints. I made two pies for work, one for poets and one for staff, and still have fruit left over, just in time for even more fruit, to be followed up next week I imagine with even more fruit. Fruit shares are comforting in their predictability.

My favorite part of making pies is the pastry making, which I have gotten much better at, by learning to do less. What I really like is how it’s bits of damp flour and butter, and particles and flour, and you mess around with it a bit, until all of a sudden it’s a thing and not particles.

And then you’re done. Which is nice.

One of the poets last night told us how weasels kill chickens-stealthily, she says. They sneak in and bite them on their heads and drain their blood out. She says that you can’t tell what happened until you look closely-you come in and there’s a peacefully sleeping chicken.

That’s my story for today.

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