My mom made the best cherry tarts. Her pastry, always made from scratch, was light and flaky. The sides of the tarts were shaped in waves. The filling was deep red cherries in a sweet sauce, one of the most delicious things I tasted as a child. In reality it was cherry pie filling from a can.
Cherry tarts were only for certain occasions. Mostly for sewing circle and quilting bee’s.
Sewing circle was a group of women who gathered in the living room – the chairs were arranged in a circle. It was my mom’s three sisters, my aunts. And a number of my mom’s cousins and neighbours. They would bring their embroidery, beautiful pieces of cotton clothing adorned with red and yellow and blue and green flowers. Pictures of flowers or birds or small cottages which would be framed for a gift for someone. Their crocheting – tiny sweaters for the newest babies, shawls, the edges of pillow cases. They brought their darning – socks, sweaters, pants – clothing was not thrown out, it was repaired.
I was allowed to have one – maybe two – cherry tarts before bed. And then was sent up to my room, after saying hello to all of my aunts and cousins and friend’s moms. I wasn’t privy to the conversations that they had.
Decades later I too gathered with small groups of women in the 70s in consciousness raising groups to talk about what we faced – in the labour force, on the streets. Later I gathered with new moms in music groups, where we sang songs to our babies, and over coffee talked about how hard it was to be a new mother, how it was not all roses and sunshine, wondering how we would survive. I gathered with women friends in book clubs – where we talked about books, mostly written by women, and just as often, and as much, talked about our lives, our struggles, our triumphs.
It wasn’t until those decades later – after my own experiences, that I realized that that is what my mother and her friends and family were doing. Talking about their challenges, which in the 50s and early 60s were paramount. And their successes and how they achieved them.
Cherry tarts, I can taste the sweet filling, the flaky pastry, see the waves. Mostly I remember the women gathered in our living room. Now I know why they came. And it wasn’t for the needle work or the tarts.