The strawberries were grown in a field. As they matured and ripened they grew heavy with juice and darker in their shade of red. I can see the environment from which they sprung in my minds-eye, a happy entwining of berries nestled in a rolling meadow that smells of dew and fresh cut grass. The light breeze carries the smells to anyone happening by the area. The ground around the strawberry patch is warm; the strawberries sun kissed and swollen with ripeness as they near their harvest. I imagine it as a quiet place, where the only sounds are those of nature and the occasional sound of a travelers foot steps walking through grass or up the dirt road nearby. I can imagine small animals, a squirrel or raccoon, stopping to eat a few of the berries as they pass. Bees drift in the air in search of pollen adding a drone to the sounds of the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and teasing the blades of grass. Even more strawberries grow in the tilled soil there, strawberries that will one day grace the plates of others as these sitting before me.
The apples that I have sliced come from an orchard full of apple trees. The orchard is colorful with varying shades of apples – vibrant greens, yellows, and reds. The smell of apples is intoxicating and evokes in anyone walking beneath the shade of the trees memories of happy times with his or her family during the fall and winter months. Thoughts of warm cider and cinnamon-apple pies drift in and out of passerby’s consciousness, and children’s mouths water in anticipation of one of fall’s most delicious fruits. Next to the orchard is a bustling store, filled with different foods and decoration. Inside I can purchase fresh apple cider and apples by the bag full. Red delicious, yellow delicious, McIntosh, and Granny Smith are separated into barrels and take up an entire room of the store. Another room contains shelves and shelves of canned fruits, homemade jams, and caramel apples. Behind the store is a small pumpkin patch, another fall fruit, adding more vibrant color to the orchard. Beyond the pumpkin patch and the apple trees are more fields and a line of dark trees, stretching off into the distance. I can hear the leaves as they crunch beneath the soles of my shoes, adding a smell of damp earth and decay to the already fragrant air.
The crust is done, a rectangle made up of flour, sugar, salt, and butter with deftly decorated edges. The dough was pliable and easy to roll out and form into the pan. I selected the plumpest strawberries and already sliced them and set them aside and I gently mix them together into the crust with some pink pearl apples and some crab apples. I am careful as I place the fruit into the pan not to tear the crust. The apples are coated with sugar, and they smell of autumn. I finish filling the pie and rummage through the cabinet for honey, which I drizzle on the tart before placing it into the oven. The oven heats the tart, causing the apples to wither and the strawberries to dry slightly. The perfume of fall is thick in the air, causing my cat to stir and quiver his nose at the aroma. Outside it rains, and there is a chill to the air. I am glad for the comfort of my kitchen and the warmth coming from the stove. As the tart cooks I wash the dishes and wipe down the counter, cleaning the mess I had made in preparation. I retrieve a white plate from the cabinet and place upon it a brown paper napkin, readying the plate for the tart. My cat has fallen back to sleep and is snoring lightly. The smell of honey is thick in the air now, and I hurry to remove the tart from the oven before it is burned.
I let the pastry cool on the shelf before I place it on the plate I have prepared. Outside it has stopped raining, and the sun is focused on forcing itself out from behind the ominous clouds. I look at the pastry and think that it looks pretty to me, and brings to mind past autumns and time spent with my family. I want to capture this moment and portray it to others to see if they feel the same way. I take the plate and some forks and a knife to the whitewashed picnic table in the backyard. The sun is warm, but I can still feel the coolness underneath the shade of the tree in the backyard. I go back to the house to grab my camera and some powdered sugar. Coming back outside I notice that the clouds are almost completely gone, and the sun is a shining star in the deep blue sky. Arranging the utensils around the pastry plate, I listen to the urban sounds of the city around me and wish I was in one of the fields where the fruit had come from. A motorcycle groans on the road and I think of the tranquility of the natural sounds that surround the strawberries and apples are as they mature. This must be why they taste and smell so sweet! I think as I snap some pictures of my pastry.
Settling down with some coffee and a slice of my homemade tart, I hear an ambulance in the distance. The sound seems disconnected from my reality, the reality of the pastry, and as it fades away I am left contemplating whether or not to stay in my architectural jungle. The sounds of the city, previously comforting, had found the way to my nerves and had set them on edge. This concrete context had me shaken and disturbed. I longed for the scenic beauty of the country and its fields of fruit. I knew that if given the chance I could ripen and become as sweet as the fruit from those fields. I rose from the white washed picnic table that now seemed sad and obscene in the small urban backyard, and strode to the house to begin a new kind of preparation - this time for my departure.
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