It isn’t every day your six-year-old bakes you a pie.
Now. You get home from work exhausted. Your boss is angry. You’re behind on a big project, you’ve had a migraine all day, and to top it all off you forgot to buy flowers or Valentine’s cards or candy or anything at all to commemorate this day of love.
When you walk in the door your partner is making dinner. And look, at that, a pie, with lots of fluffy whipped cream sitting at your place on the table in your favorite red ceramic dish. You can’t help but feel your heart squeeze a little. You love pie, and you really love him for making it for you.
Earlier. All day he works. He digs the perfect hole from his favorite spot in the backyard, pouring water in and digging mud out into a little yellow pail.
Carefully he scoops mud out of the pail, pats it down, and flattens it out across the bottom of the ceramic dish. He sets it in the sun to dry.
He gently eases strawberries off the plant that grows under the fence. He rinses them under the hose. Using a butter knife, he awkwardly slices the strawberries and places them along the hardened crust. Yes, that looks nice.
Gingerly, he carries the pie inside. Setting it on the counter, he drags over a chair to open the fridge. If only he were a bit taller.
