Patti Friday: Willa’s Blueberry Hill

Willa’s Blueberry Hill

Willa Beth Givens by no means did discover her thrill on Blueberry Hill—although not for lack of attempting. There’d been one or two maybes and an entire handful of completely nots, however Willa lived by the philosophy that it was much better to be alone than to take heed to somebody chew cereal too loudly for the remainder of your pure life.

She lived in a crooked farmhouse simply exterior a one-street Ontario farm city the place the tractors had proper of means and everybody knew whose barn dance led to tears. Her entrance porch sagged in a means that urged knowledge, not neglect, and the outdated shed beside the lilac hedge had develop into one thing of an area legend.

Willa’s Antiques & Oddments, open Fridays solely, sunup to offered out, was crammed filled with enamel basins, chipped teacups, pressed glass sweet dishes, and furnishings that smelled like time. Willa by no means marketed, not even on Fb, however phrase bought out—particularly concerning the pies.

Each Thursday afternoon, Willa would tie on her apron (cream linen, embroidered with blueberries, naturally), placed on a radio station that performed nothing recorded after 1972, and set to work. She baked nicely into the evening, accompanied by the hum of crickets and the occasional thump from a raccoon making an attempt larceny.

The outcome was her signature creation: Blueberry Pie for One.

Every was a petite, palm-sized magnificence baked in a 4 inch tin foil pan, crust golden and sugared, blueberries effervescent up like secrets and techniques. She offered them for 5 {dollars} flat, no tax, no nonsense. A hand-painted signal on the finish of her lengthy gravel drive learn:

“BLUEBERRY PIES FOR ONE — UNTIL SOLD OUT”
(beneath, in smaller letters: “No, it’s possible you’ll not reserve them. That’s not how pie works.”)

By 8 a.m. Friday, a line would type. Farmers in overalls. Retired schoolteachers. Youngsters in quest of one thing ironic. They’d mill across the driveway sipping thermoses of espresso and hoping Willa hadn’t run out earlier than their flip.

Willa, in her linen costume and cloud of sentimental brown hair, would unlock the shed promptly at 9:00 with a key formed like a tulip and name out, “Alright, you lot! No pushing, and don’t attempt to sweet-talk me out of a second pie ‘til everybody’s been served.” Then she’d plop a tattered picket join in opposition to the outdated maple tree. It was a pun by her late Mom who all the time stated, ‘Pie Are Spherical. Cake Are Sq.’.

Of us got here for the antiques, positive—nevertheless it was the pie they talked about. Served heat with a scoop of vanilla ice cream should you have been fortunate sufficient to befriend Willa, the pie was wealthy with complete berries and the type of crust that would make a widow weep.

“Why just for one?” somebody requested as soon as.

Willa shrugged. “Since you deserve one thing only for you, sugar. No sharing, no forks preventing for the final chunk. Simply peace, blueberries, and a little bit butter.”

She by no means married, by no means moved, and by no means as soon as raised her costs. And although she by no means discovered her thrill on Blueberry Hill, she constructed her personal hill of types—manufactured from pie tins, vintage spoons, and a quiet type of pleasure that didn’t must be shared to be price all the pieces.

ORDER nice artwork print of ‘Pie Are Spherical Cake Are Sq.’ right here.