Strawberry Pie

My husband and I went to our lake cabin this weekend. Actually, not even for the whole weekend, just for twenty-seven hours. Just enough to re-charge. We arrived at 5:00 on Saturday evening and left at 8:00 on Sunday night. A quick trip, but enough to prepare us to face another work week.

Because it was a short trip I opted not to cook. We took a take-and-bake pizza and Marie Callender's chicken pot pies. Normally I enjoy cooking when we go to the lake. I find it relaxing and enjoyable to prepare good meals when we are there. It is at home, in the real world, where I don't usually have the time, or the energy, or the desire to spend much time in the kitchen. But in consideration of the time and my apathy toward food this weekend, we took the easy way out.

Our arrival was timed to enjoy our favorite time of day at the lake. We like nothing more than to sit on the deck overlooking the lake, watching the setting sun turn the water a multitude of colors. The transformation is astounding. From muddy blue, to milky green, to emerald, to aquamarine, to midnight blue, to slate, to onyx, and if the moon is full - to mica. A kaleidoscope show of color, seemingly just for our benefit.

Without city lights the night sky is more vivid. The moon admiring its reflection on the water, the stars, somehow nearer to earth than they are in town. Nature is not timid about showing her beauty after dark. Deer, a raccoon, and an armadillo all come out from their hiding places.

After a night of sleep uninterrupted by sirens or honking car horns we wake to the sound of birds outside of our window. The first light on the lake is, perhaps, more dazzling than the last. Watching the sun turn the gray water to mercury is magical. Then the diamonds are cast on the surface and I am a rich woman.

The eight tom turkeys, who reside somewhere near our property, stagger across the tableau like drunks returning from a bachelor party. Quail single file run behind them as if admonishing them for their bad behavior. One lone bird of prey glides gracefully over the lake, flaps his wings once in approval before disappearing into the bright, white, morning sky.

Early rising neighbors nod or wave or salute each other with coffee mugs as the sky turns to blue and the whine of a boat motor breaks the magical silence. I feel as if I have just been to church on this Sunday morning.

The rest of the day is spent doing what we enjoy. My husband does the maintenance chores he wants to do versus has to do. I read and write without interruption, without guilt, without the worry of cleaning the house or doing the wash or running the errands. One more magical evening and it is time to return to reality and to our work week.

While waiting for our Marie Callender chicken pot pies to cool we snap the leashes on the dogs and go for one last walk. We inspect the handy-work my husband has done around the dock, and let the dogs sniff deer tracks and rabbit holes to their content. We return to the cabin and to our dinner to find a strawberry pie in our refrigerator. In this utopia where we don't lock our doors, some kind neighbor left us a strawberry pie. We sit on the deck, watch the lake go through its chameleon performance, eat strawberry pie, and smile.