By Mary Harvill
Pies have an interesting history in American life. A sign of friendship, prowess in the kitchen, a place to hide the gun for a jail escape in Western films or a place to showcase the fruits of the harvest season, pies are always a welcome sight. As complicated as modern life can get, the simplicity and goodness of a slice pie never loses its value.
This summer, I have learned about the motivational and bartering power of a fresh raspberry pie, trading the promise of a homemade pie for assistance with ranch chores that I cannot do myself for lack of the proper harvesting equipment. Without the horses to graze on the pasture this summer, the grass has grown like wildfire and become a tinderbox waiting for the first spark. I did not want the pasture grass to go to waste. I could have spent the better part of the hot summer days wielding a sickle like my Russian neighbors but my mechanized western mind wouldn’t allow for such inefficiency. So I watched my neighbors harvest their pasture grass with their John Deere equipment and realized I had nothing to lose by asking them for their assistance in cutting and baling.
The fresh raspberry pie was delivered to ‘Big-Time’s’ charming and sharp 91 year-old mother who lives in the first house at their place, an old-fashioned family compound. We had a lovely chat about all sorts of things while my new dog, Flint, explored their spread with happy abandon.
One neighbor was “hayed out.” The second neighbor (neighbor #2), a charming 80 year-old man hated to have to tell me “no” because he was worn out from his harvest and some of the key equipment was in need of repair. He said he didn’t have the energy to repair it. However, he asked me if I was a good cook, hatching an idea and causing me to recall the phrase: “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I also explained to neighbor #2 that I had contacted the big-time farmer, neighbor #3 about harvesting the hay for me. Neighbor #3 said he would come by my place and take a look but hadn’t quite made it up my driveway, though he drives by my place several times a day to monitor his nearby alfalfa field. Neighbor #2 told me he farmed my pasture long ago when he was running sheep and that it was good grass as well as easy to harvest.
I went to the local U-Pick, which for me was Costco and bought a flat of raspberries grown in Puyallup, WA. Local enough for me. I bought some raspberries last summer in Greenbluff, WA and noticed on the box the name of a produce company in Oregon, so I figured the Greenbluff berries may not have been exactly grown in Greenbluff. The Costco berries were superb. I made a raspberry pie and delivered it to neighbor #2. After neighbor #2 sang the praises of my raspberry pie to neighbor #3, lo and behold, neighbor #3, “Big Time,” arrived on my place in his air conditioned thresher the very next day to cut the pasture grass.
Unfortunately, his machine was too wide to fit through the gates, so the fence line had to be cut first, then he could return to harvest.
Time is money for neighbor #3, so he wasn’t going to handle the labor to cut the fence line himself (causing me to think “he’s Big-Time.”) To encourage neighbor #3 to return to finish the job, I asked him if he liked fresh raspberry pie. When his eyes brightened, I knew I had him. So I promised him a pie upon completion of the job. Gotta grease the wheel.
I explained the day’s events to neighbor #2. He volunteered to come over and cut the fence line for me so the harvest could begin. The fence line was cut as promised and the harvest completed, eleven 700 pound (more or less) round bales of hay in all.
The fresh raspberry pie was delivered to Big-Time’s charming and sharp 91 year-old mother who lives in the first house at their place, an old-fashioned family compound. We had a lovely chat about all sorts of things while my new dog, Flint, explored their spread with happy abandon. Mamma Big-Time promised not to polish off the pie before her son could have a slice. The next day, Big-Time came by to tell me he sold the bales to neighbor #4 to feed to his goats and that neighbor #4 would pick them up and haul them to his place.
Job completed. All fueled by raspberry pie.
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