"I'll carry the pies," he said."I can get them," I countered.
"Oh, no, you can't..." the two homemade cherry pies sat firmly in the palms of his hands.
"How will I take them into the bake sale building once I get there if you won't let me carry them?"
Joe's wife, Edna, laughed. "Give her the pies."
Edna makes some of the very best pies in the world. She bakes incredible red raspberry pies from raspberries that she deseeds herself. And beautiful! You've likely never seen pies so lovely.
So I can understand Joe's protectiveness. And since the pies were going to a benefit sale for an Amish lady who has leukemia, Joe wanted them to arrive in perfect shape, to bring the most money for the sale. In the end, I carried the pies, and Joe, outfitted with his black hat and suspenders, carried the box of home-baked bread to my van.
I feel particularly self-conscious around my Amish neighbors. I can't tell you exactly why, but I do. They're often very industrious, and I've heard stories of clean houses being declared "filthy" by an Amish housewife, so I know that my filthy van must get even harsher criticism. But living in the country and regularly driving back roads, my van is more often brown than blue. It's important to be careful when you climb in, or your knees might be coated in mud.
I transported the cherry pies with the greatest attention to their welfare. I drove carefully, occasionally looking back to be sure they were alright. It was a short drive. They survived.
As I approached the building where the benefit sale was to be held, a steady stream of black hats, black pants, black jackets and white shirts accompanied an equally steady stream of solid-colored dresses peeking from the bottoms of black coats and white bonnets bobbed along one after another.
I pulled my blue-brown van into the gravel lot, met by the stares of dozens of Amish women who were peering out of the building's windows. I had the only motorized vehicle. All around me were spotless black buggies. Spotless.
I pulled a box of bread from the back of the van, keenly aware that they were aware that I was different. When attending an Amish function, we "English" are in the minority. It's an odd feeling, and because of their common language, it's easy to feel out-of-place amidst the chatter of Dutch words.
I try not to feel intimidated in these situations. I try to just pretend I know exactly what I'm doing, that I belong exactly where I am. I boldly delivered the box of bread to the group of Amish ladies who were laying out table after table after table of baked goods. Cookies, brownies, breads, cakes, fry pies, muffins, and pies of every flavor. On the way back to the van, I silently chided myself for not bringing any money, but since I've been trying to keep the goodies out of the house, I silently applauded myself, too.
I leaned in and pulled the box of breads and one of the cherry pies toward me. The other pie sat on the floor of the van, next to the box. I debated. Do I try to pull it out now? Do I place it in the box on top of the breads? Or do I just come back for it? I checked out the box. Surely there was room for another pie. I slid it into place among the wheat breads and backed away from the van.
As soon as I had the box out of the van, and before I realized what was happening, the strong wind swept up under the pan and lifted the pie from the box. The lid flew across the parking lot and the pie landed.
Splat.
Upside down on the gravel.
Right in the middle of that sea of black hats, black jackets, black shoes, black coats, white bonnets, solid dresses and Dutch words.
Splat.
I stifled a scream. I couldn't believe it. I stood staring at the pie as it oozed over the stones. A young Amish girl came from the building and silently rescued the other box as I ran for the lid that had flown across the gravel lot. Taking the lid, which had the hand-printed word, "CHERRY" on the top, I knelt down in the wind and rain, next to my blue-brown van and scooped up the pie, the sea of black and white and blue and violet and green parting around me, tsking. "What a shame," one woman was saying. Bits of gravel stuck to the once beautiful pie, large pieces of stone scooped up along with the tender crust and bright red cherries.
I slid the ruined pie back into the back of my van, climbed in and headed home.
