This photo is all about my introduction to an old fashioned cherry pitter and my subsequent fascination with baking a cobbler and missing my dad fiercely.
Turns out this photo gig is, by no calculated choice of my own, making me more neighborly. Because when you stand in your yard in full view of your neighbors taking photos of toes and doorknobs and mailboxes, they just can't help themselves. It's a bit like dangling a steak in front of a dog. They come over.
So tonight's photo of my mailbox (and note: it is a door albeit a rather small one) brought the other neighbor calling, the one to the south. This one however came with less concern for my sanity and instead brought wild cherries.
One simply cannot anticipate such things.
An hour later I'm back home with a bowl full of freshly pitted wild cherries and diligently searching for a cobbler recipe. Which makes me weepy for my dad because he loves cobbler more than anything in the entire world including me. I learned from a young age I couldn't compete with his passion for things bubbly and berry-laden so I made the astute decision to become his cobbler provider, his Dealer of sorts of warm flaky fruity concoctions. This way I could channel that predictable stream of lavish adoration and praise my way. And it worked- I grew up feeling loved and valued and into the confident productive adult I am today.
And so I owe a lot to the cobbler.
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