Pie

A large brown bin. A large white lady. Some huge scabby legs and a card table in the corner. Those were just a few of the elements we were privy to at the Greek deli at which my friend Sue and I had lunch today.

On the card table sat the bin filled with a spinach and feta mixture; sheets of phyllo dough were spread out before it. The lady, an older Greek woman, wearing a dress and ankle socks, perched behind the card table on a folding chair making spinach pie while she chewed something that had come out of a Styrofoam container before her, vegetable soup, maybe. She had a blond ponytail and legs like pitted tree stumps. The bin was something that most people would use as a dishpan and tiny pieces of spinach floated in a puddle of green water in the center of the mixture.

"Making spinach pie?" I asked, my deductive brilliance shining through.

"Yep," she said.

"I make that," I said, because evidently I was sure that information would enthrall her.

"You make it good?" She was gruff, but somehow interested.

"Yes," I said. "I do."

"Good," she said.

I turned and we went back to work.