Page 28 of Fall is Brewing

Clearing her throat, she looks at Marcy. “We’re ready for the next pie,” she says, and takes the first sheet off the clipboard, handing it to her.

Marcy sets down the next pie in front of us and I swallow my grimace. This one’s overly ambitious—maple bourbon with a honey rosemary crust.

Willa makes a face before she even takes a bite.

“You hate it already,” I murmur.

“It’s trying too hard.”

I take a bite. The rosemary hits first, sharp and unexpected.

“Or it’s experimental,” I counter.

“It’s distracting.”

“It’s bold.”

“It’s confused.”

“It’s interesting.”

We lock eyes.

The air tightens.

Behind us, someone whispers, “Oh, this one’s gonna be good.”

I lower my voice. “Innovation doesn’t erase tradition.”

“And tradition doesn’t need rescuing,” she shoots back.

There it is.Not about pie. Not really, anyway.

I glance down at the slice again. “It’s not my favorite,” I admit. “But the technique’s solid.”

Her pen stills again. “You’re giving it points?” she asks.

“For concept and for innovation. Not execution.”

She studies me, recalculating. Then, after a beat, she adjusts her score slightly.

Not dramatically, but enough for me to know that my comment struck a chord.

Marcy beams from across the room like she’s witnessing world peace.

We move through the next few pies more fluidly. Not agreeing on everything—but not fighting either. When she catches a slight graininess in the filling, I test for it. When I note uneven spice layering, she double-checks.

Something tells me it’s gonna be a long day.

Our final pie of the afternoon is unassuming.

No bourbon. No rosemary. No dramatic lattice work or caramel drizzle. Just a simple, golden crust with slightly uneven crimping and a handwritten card propped beside it.

Mabel Jensen – Home Kitchen Entry

Willa reaches for the card first.

“Mabel’s been entering for years,” she says, almost to herself.