I just got back from visiting my parents at the farm in the bustling nowhere of Tangleflags, SK. I've been thinking about my mom's cooking non-stop for a week now. My mother grows more famous in the area as the best cook around as the years go by. People eat at her house like it's their last supper. There were three pies - a horrible pumpkin for the suckers who eat that sort of thing, saskatoon (similar to blueberry) and chocolate.
My parents live next to my aunt & uncle, who own the farm my great-grandfather claimed and settled. Aunt & Uncle are known for taking in stray humans, dusting them off, setting them on their feet and getting them going again. They have no children of their own but many adoptive/casual foster types that fall from their family trees. Currently living with them is a young man of 22 who got a blow-n-go lock on his car after his first DUI. He is lucky to be living with my uncle, who pays him to help with farm maintenance while he attends Lakeland College. He is even more lucky to be living next to my mother; my aunt isn't much of a cook. My dad tells me that when he gets desperate enough he hangs around until mealtime - and he'll probably have to get in line. My mother told me she helped out with a local funeral and a man she hadn't met before asked everyone in the crowd about her and how he could get her to give up her egg salad recipe. (Just so you know, dude, there IS no recipe. She just does whatever and it turns out amazing.)
My dad likes to tease people who show up with the intent of sticking around for eats by pretending to be upset at second helpings. "It's easy for you," said one of the strays. "You live in The Cookie Factory!" And I agree, he's had the benefit of her combination of skill and natural talent for nearly 47 years, so he can just relax when I go into their cool room and start rummaging for canned pears and relishes.