now The best blackberry pie I have ever had can be found at a truck stop somewhere in the back of beyond in southern Arizona off of Interstate 10. What’s even better than blackberry pie is having it for breakfast. Mare is nursing black coffee and buttered toast, as if her stomach is still bothering her. She is buried in the newspaper, catching up on world news and probably reading “Dear Abby” like she’s done every morning of the trip so far. “So, where were they sending you?” I ask when she emerges from her reading for a moment. Mare sighs. “Girl, let me read my paper and eat your … pie,” she says, shaking her head and giving my breakfast an amused look. I shrug and fork up another mouthful. Mare doesn’t bother to make us eat anything in particular, and especially after the incident with the plums, she really has no room at all to complain about what we eat, which is why for breakfast this morning I opted for pie and ice cream. Tali is eating hash browns and slurping down a milk shake.
