When I make an apple pie
I take my time. Apple pie is one of the few things I don't rush. I peel the apples slowly, adding spices and sugar, carefully mixing the dough, and let my mind wander up and down the branches of our family tree.
I curl my fingers around the birdseye maple rolling pin that my grandpa gave me, smiling at the thought of him picking it up at an auction or estate sale. I'm sure he said something like, "Now baby, you can't buy one like this anymore," and I certainly couldn't. It's solid, sturdy, almost primitive, and perfectly seasoned from who knows how many years of rolling out pie crusts.
I use the recipe my mom first wrote for me on a scrap of paper, jotting it down from memory before she went to work in the morning.
I remember growing up across the street from an apple orchard, and the abundance of harvest in the fall. I'm forever an apple snob because of those days and cannot tolerate a sub-par apple.
I recall being 17 years old and making an apple pie for one of the first Christmas presents I gave to my boyfriend. His name was Brian.
I laugh, knowing my brother rivals me in pie-making skills.
I think of my aunt, who, upon hearing that family members would be driving in from various states to visit my sick father, rolled up her sleeves and said, "I better start making some pies."
I smile, remembering how Ben used to call it, "pile" instead of pie.
I remember driving to my grandma and grandpa's house in Ohio, placing bets with my family along the way about what kind of pie would be waiting for us there.
I think of how many apple pies my mom made for our family, her movements so quick and sure from years of practice.
I savor the chance to create...a humble art...an act of love. And after some time, when that wonderful, incomparable scent begins to drift out of the oven, our house feels that much more like home.

