Elias froze. "Tart cherries. Fresh, if you have them. Frozen or jarred if you don't."
"Not the same," Elias would mutter, adjusted his glasses. He wasn't looking for a snack. He was looking for the sharp, electric tang of a Montmorency—the true tart cherry. His grandmother’s pie recipe didn't ask for "sweet." It demanded a flavor that made your jaw hinge ache. where can i buy tart cherries
Marty chuckled and pointed a calloused finger toward the back corner. "I don't stock the fresh ones this late, but I keep the 'baking gold' in the glass jars. Grown in Traverse City. Packed in their own juice. No sugar added." Elias froze
Marty, a man who looked like he was carved out of an old apple tree, stepped into the light. "Fresh season is blink-and-you-miss-it, kid. Usually July, mostly up in Michigan or Utah. You're a few months off for the orchards." Elias deflated. "I need them for tonight." Frozen or jarred if you don't
The neon sign outside "Marty’s Produce" flickered, casting a buzzing red glow over Elias’s boots. He had been to four grocery stores already. Each time, he asked the same question. Each time, he got the same shrug.
"If you're ever in a real pinch," Marty called out as Elias brought two jars to the counter, "check the freezer aisle at the big co-ops. They flash-freeze them right off the tree. Keeps that zing better than anything." Elias tapped the glass. "These will do just fine." "Making a pie?" Marty asked, ringing him up.
Elias walked to the shelf. There they were. Not the bloated, purple-black cherries of the supermarket, but bright, fire-engine red globes suspended in clear nectar.