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The cool crisp morning air reminds me that the unusually warm summer of 2016 has come to an end. My town’s Saturday market, with its lush weekly harvest of shiny apples, wine, pastries and fresh-picked herbs and vegetables, is winding up. The birds are flying south, and many of the vendors will soon be doing the same.
Thanksgiving weekend marks the last opportunity for the town’s people to share their beautiful produce – including, of course, the traditional turkey – with our families. We certainly have a tremendous amount to be thankful for, which hopefully my family will express as we sit down to eat today. But, sadly for me, the pleasures of this particular hometown market are not on my list. In fact, I didn’t attend at all this year.
Last year, I was a regular, often meeting up there with old friends or new acquaintances, but this year I was too embarrassed. I didn’t want to run into the Pie Lady.
She sells lovely, booze-infused, single-serving pies – beef, chicken and vegetarian – all richly sauced, with enticing names. She even has a line of gluten-free pies, which is why I stopped at her booth one Saturday last July. I have celiac disease. The Pie Lady had run out of the gluten-free pastries that day, and announced with annoyance that she wouldn’t have them next week either – her husband, a scientist, was going to Chicago that weekend to pick up an award and wanted her to go with him.
To make her feel better, I chimed in that Chicago was a beautiful town; she would enjoy the break as well as everything that the City on the Lake had to offer. “Well, who is going to look after my shop?” she asked. Without missing a beat, I said that I would. She immediately agreed, without asking the nature of my experience (none, though I did work in a butcher’s shop in Toronto for a short while).
We agreed to meet at my house midweek, and she swiftly disclosed some necessary information and logistics – the cash box, ovens, signs, her car (did I know how to drive standard? yes) and utensils. The deal was struck. She brought her car to my home as planned. The following Saturday, I showed up at the market in her vehicle, replete with paraphernalia. The Pie Lady came at 5:30 a.m. to offer reassurance and a brush-up on the day’s wares. She proffered a hurried account of the inventory, including two new pie selections. The ones with three peas on the crust contained Bourbon-infused beef, while a diamond pattern in the crust indicated buttery chardonnay chicken.
“These pies are cooked and need heating,” she said. “These require baking. And these are frozen. Start to thaw them as you reduce inventory. Goodbye and good luck! We’ll pick up the ovens and car on Monday by noon.” In a flurry of exasperation, she was gone.
I donned my apron, established the whereabouts of napkins, secured my spatula and, voila, the sun rose and pie selling began. The day turned out hotter than the freshly baked pies. I could have sold hundreds of bottles of chilled water, but that wasn’t part of my inventory. To be fair, I did unload a fair number of pies, though I sweltered and baked along with the burbling beef Bourguignon. Another vendor was to spell me off for a 15-minute break, but it didn’t happen. No matter: A friend happened along, put on the apron, and I ran across a parking lot to the air-conditioned washroom at a grocery store.
I laboured and sweated until 2 p.m., and with the market coming to a close, I embarked on dismantling the tent. I rounded up all the paraphernalia and shoe-horned it into the compact car. I limped home, dragged the cash box into the house and began the math of the project. I removed my $100 salary, secured the remaining profits, and sank into a scented bath. On Sunday I rested, not gloating about my successful venture, but satisfied.
On Monday, an hour before the Pie Lady was to pick up her wares, it occurred to me that I should clean out her car, tidy her inventory and give the oven a bit of a scrub. It was still 32C, so when I opened the car door I was driven back by a heat bomb. This was accompanied by a putrid, Petri-dish-like aroma. That was when I discovered a large, soft-sided bag full of gluten-free pies I was supposed to have baked on request for celiac customers. The crusts and their gourmet contents had melded into a meat and vegetable melange. I had diligently refrigerated or frozen the unsold pies, but in my post-market fatigue I’d missed this bag reposing behind the driver’s seat. Could I throw it out? Feign ignorance?
Tearfully, I estimated the number of deceased pot pies to be worth the equivalent of my day’s pay. With bitterness and remorse, I returned my salary to the cash box. I confessed my negligence to the Pie Lady, who showed up immediately after and was none too pleased. She didn’t offer any compensation and hastily left. I retreated inside my hot, non-air-conditioned home with nothing to show for my pie palooza but one sorry tale.
Though this year’s Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t benefit from the market’s lovely cornucopia, I’m still feeling thankful today. Perhaps not for the way I was treated, but for the beautiful life we have in this Georgian Bay region.
Jane Crist lives in Collingwood, Ont.