It was a cool, grey day in early October. The air was heavily laden with moisture though it had rained the night before. The ground was dappled with pools of water, some shallow, some much deeper than they appeared, but I had on my pink rubber boots. Wearing my little green jacket with the fur around the hood, I tramped after my grandmother as she set off for the vineyards. I was about 5 years old and was excited to help pick grapes.
As she worked her way down the rows of Cabernet Sauvignon, my interest waned, and I found myself more interested in grape leaves than in the grapes themselves. There veins were so distinct, so numerous, and made such wonderful patterns when stamped into the soft moist earth. I began layering leaves one on another, like paper mache, curling the edges to make a sort of pie crust. I filled I with the sloppiest mud I could find and jiggled it to even out the top – as I had seen my grandmother do the day before when making a quiche. Expectantly, I held up the pie, offering my grandmother a taste. She declined and I, with crushed spirit, went back to making leaf prints in the mud.
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