Mom's Incredible Apple Pie

It's impossible for me to make a pie without thinking about Mom. I made an apple pie today, and every motion of my hand is something she taught me. Before I could walk, I was watching her roll out the dough, and while I was still in pigtails, she was including me in the process, giving encouragement and patiently correcting my blunders. Making a pie is like stepping back into Saturday night in Mom's kitchen.

I can still see Mom as she slips her apron off the peg in the closet and ties it around her waist. In her big white mixing bowl, she cuts Crisco into the flour mixture with two knives, sprinkles in a little ice water, and gathers the dough into a ball. Humming a tune, she presses it flat and rolls it out thin.

She glances at me over her shoulder. "When I'm in a good mood," she says thoughtfully, "the pie crusts turn out, and when I'm in a bad mood, they don't." Judging from the results, Mom wasn't in a bad mood very often.

Mom had a varied resume when it came to pies; there was rhubarb (my favorite), and blackberry and lemon meringue, cherry, pumpkin and mincemeat.This night's project was one of her specialties, her Incredible Apple Pie.  The fruit had to be firm and tart, and this time of year in Washington state, where I grew up, such apples were abundant.

Mom peals the apples, and I help. "When I was young," she tells me, smiling, "my sisters and I used try to get the whole peal off in one long spiral. We'd see who could get the longest one."

Mom slices the apples thin, adds sugar and spices, a top crust, and pops her masterpiece in the oven. When the pie is nicely browned, she takes it out of the oven and leans down to listen. It's bubbling, so it's done.

The aroma is mouth watering, and for her children who can't wait 'til Sunday dinner, there are scraps of pie crust with cinnamon and sugar. Oh, what bliss!

Mom's been gone for a long time now.  

If there are pies in heaven, and it's hard to imagine otherwise,
she certainly has her apron on.

All These Gifts

Yesterday was balmy, and checking on my absent neighbor's dogs was a good excuse to get outside.  

The sun warmed my face as I sat on a stump and stroked Corby's hair, while high above us vultures traced lazy circles in the sky. When a gust of wind sent leaves crashing to the ground, pint-sized Jazz barked at them. At home, bluebirds made an appearance...

 

...and 2 Carolina Wrens fluttered around the dried sunflower that was hanging under the eves. I imagine they were not as interested in a food source as a future nesting site, since they've been checking out a basket on the porch, too.

In the afternoon, there was laughter in the kitchen as a friend and I peeled apples, trying to peel one in a long spiraling strip, like Mom used to do with her sisters. Later, the aroma of apple pie filled the room as we enjoyed dinner with friends.

Warm sun, dog kisses, friends around the table--an ordinary day? Not exactly. But then really, is there any such thing?