My not-so-secret agenda for this trip was to obtain fruit with which to make sweet preserves once home in New Jersey, to wit figs, muscadine and scuppernong grapes. As it turned out, two out of three ain't bad. Figs were simply unobtainable. Oh, they were there all right. I even picked and ate some at Governor Tryon's Palace, sticky and sweet and just as good as I remember figs tasting, pale green skin and rosy flesh. But I wanted a couple of quarts with which to make fig jam. I was told that no one sells them because everyone has them. They just give the figs away. Fine, point me in the right direction and they can give them to me. Didn't happen.
I was egged on by this sign I noticed, in front of a Baptist church. As I was photographing it this nice couple pulled in. He's a deacon in the church and they wondered if we needed any help. Paul and Woody explained about my jam-making proclivities. They thought maybe they could suggest someone with figs (didn't pan out, or at least they never called Woody's cell phone. But they did know about grapes. There'd be some at Gillette Farm. ("Now," they said, "he never liked his name pronounced like that razor blade company, always said to call him "gill-et", not "jill-et.") We took a reconnaissance ride by the place and sure enough, there were neatly trellised vines and a sign by the road for grapes. This was early in the week, so we made plans to stop by on Saturday, just before our journey home. And that's what we did.
Pulled in the driveway, and I jumped out of the car. Knocked at the door but there was no answer. Then here came Miz Gillette riding up on a quad from a barn at the back. I explained that we'd seen her sign and I wanted to buy some grapes. She led me around to the back door where there was a box with half a dozen plastic bags, open at the top, filled with bronzey green muscadine grapes. "There's about two pounds in each bag," she said. "Maybe a bit more. I sell them for $2 each." Didn't take me long to decide I'd take four. No, make that five. She got some twist 'ems and was closing the bags. Told me that when her husband was alive they had 50 acres of grapes, and he'd drive them to a winery in Virginia. But now she had only a few vines in production. The scuppernongs would be along in about a week. I explained to this nice elderly lady that I wouldn't be here in a week's time. I'd be taking the grapes home to New Jersey tomorrow, and using them to make jam and jelly.
"Grape hull pie." she said. "I don't remember exactly the recipe. But you hull your grapes and cook the pulp, and strain it to get out the seeds. Then add the hulls and cook them. When they're soft you chop them a bit. Add sugar and eggs and, something else, I forget. Pour it in a crust and bake it. Top it with meringue. It's been a long time since I've made one." she said softly. By now were were smiling at each other, two women who like to cook. I told her I'm Judy, she said her name is Kathleen. We shook hands, and parted way, likely never to meet again. But I gathered some nice memories to go with the grapes.
