Posts Tagged ‘Baking’

Mom’s Apple Pie

Friday, October 26th, 2012

When I was little my Mom would make her delicious apple pie around this time of the year.

The crust was flaky, buttery, and moist on the bottom.  The apples were coated in sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and lemon juice, the aroma made my siblings and I beg for the them before they ever got into the pie. Mom would always swat us away, like the apple grubbing flies we were.  She would then make the crust by hand and roll it out unto the table in a perfect circle.

I always loved the way the delicate dough would be gently wound around her rolling pin and then placed above the pan.  After she filled the pie pan with a mound of luscious apples, she would cover it with another perfect circle of dough.  We would circle around her as she worked her magic with an ordinary fork, first sealing the pie with fork grooves all the way around in a quick movement as she spun the pie pan with her other hand.  This is when she would let one of us poke holes in the top, of course my over-protective mother not wanting her masterpiece to be ruined guided our hands in the process.  We didn’t care, we were a competitive bunch and the lucky fork holder was just excited to be chosen this time around.

The worst part was the waiting, it was boring.  The house filled with wonderful warm smells and my mother would suggest a card game to keep us busy while her pies steamed and baked.  When they were ready to come out we jumped up and down in delicious anticipation.  It was not be, Mom told us we had to wait a bit more, the pies were too hot.  Sulky and sad faces went back to the card game, a few minutes ago terribly exciting, but now with pies in our future just a boring distraction.

Finally, oh wondrously, the moment of apple pie was upon us.  My sister and I would set the table in a flash, folding napkins in their triangle position as we were taught. We placed forks we would all get a turn to use on the napkin and filled glasses with cold creamy milk.  We sat around the table, on our best behavior, squabbling, pushing, and running around now set aside.  Mom would carefully cut the pie into the equal pieces she knew we would demand, avoiding the soon to come. “It’s not fair, they got bigger pieces!”  Mom was a pro with four little ones, five if you count my cousin, John who came by often.

We would sink those forks into our warm apple pie, the cinnamon filling our insides with a goodness that can only be felt in autumn. This now became the best thing that could ever be felt, better than the crinkly sound the fall leaves made when we stomped on them, better than the crisp back to school blue jeans we were so excited about a month before, and certainly better than those brussels sprouts my mother insisted we eat for dinner the night before.

Gooey apple pie juice rushed through our mouths like a gush of liquid candy, crust flaked alongside it in a combination of best friendship that would never flat leave the other.  When I look back at our apple pie moments they were happy and carefree.  We were together as a family and my Mom was happy with her pies.  Soon we forgot the moment of relish and spooned the pie into our mouths, talking and laughing about who knows what.