Pie for supper

We have great success with strawberries in our garden. Five years ago, we planted two small plants--one of the runner type and the other a non-runner--and they're both still going strong. The runner plant has now populated almost an entire row of our 900 square foot garden, so here in the middle of the summer we have seemingly infinite strawberries.

Strawberries are one fruit that we tend to have year-round, even though we generally try to eat locally and seasonally. They're just so hard to resist. But the first time I tasted one of our homegrown berries, I suddenly realized what we've given up in taste just to have strawberries any time of the year. Donald said the other day that we've never grown a crunchy strawberry, and he's right. Crunchy, bland strawberries were unknown in my childhood. Strawberries didn't travel far enough for shipping to be a consideration in growing them. In fact, in the backyard of the first house I remember, there were plants left behind by a former resident that produced berries that I was always the first to discover, being the shortest and most earthbound member of the family at the time. Those berries never had the pleasure of traveling even as far as our kitchen. I ate them right from the vine.

It is a flavor I thought I would never forget, but it turns out that over the years I did forget. The berries in our garden remind me every June. There's something about having a food only at a certain time of year that makes it that much more enjoyable. In Ohio, our vanishing delicacies were tomatoes and strawberries. Those summers in Ohio were festive with family gatherings, and the women on both sides of my family were phenomenal cooks. The best strawberry shortcake I ever had was made by my Great-Aunt Addie, using berries from her garden, cream from her cows, and shortcakes that were closer to biscuits than to those sponge discs sold in grocery stores. I remember sitting at her kitchen table on a little farm in Mechanicsburg, Ohio listening to the women gossip about relatives who weren't lucky enough to be there that warm summer day.

Then there was my Aunt Jeanne's black raspberry pie--a gold standard of pie deliciousness that I have never quite been able to match. She grew those berries on bushes way back behind their funky little house in Springfield, Ohio, and she'd send any kids who were hanging around to pick them because that was a nasty and prickly job. But every scratch was worth it in the end.

So today, as I am overwhelmed by quarts and quarts of berries we've picked the last two days and with countless more ripening as I write this, I started thinking about my Aunt Juanita's fresh strawberry pies. She knew how to make that translucent red goopy stuff that sweetens the tang of the fruit--she wouldn't be caught dead buying it in jars at the grocery store. She's in her 90s now in a care facility in California recovering from a broken ankle. She's gotten frailer and more vulnerable these last few years, and we've tried to celebrate every occasion we can with her. Sometimes we have pie suppers--everyone brings a pie, and that's all there is for supper: more kinds of pie than anyone should ever eat at one meal.

So this pie's for AJ and for all the women in my family who taught me the magic of growing and cooking real food and bringing people together to enjoy it. I hope I can live up to their legacy.

Fresh Strawberry Pie (Makes 2)

• 2 (8 inch) pie shells, baked
• 2 1/2 quarts fresh strawberries
• 1 cup white sugar
• 2 tablespoons cornstarch
• 1 cup boiling water
• 1 (3 ounce) package strawberry flavored gelatin

1. In a saucepan, mix together the sugar and corn starch; make sure to blend corn starch in completely. Add boiling water, and cook over medium heat until mixture thickens. Remove from heat. Add gelatin mix, and stir until smooth. Let mixture cool to room temperature.
2. Place strawberries in baked pie shells; position berries with points facing up. Pour cooled gel mixture over strawberries.
3. Refrigerate until set. Serve with whipped cream, if desired.