Making Apple Pie


It wasn't the flaky dough with bits of butter making it fall apart and melt in your mouth that she liked.  It was the apple slices, punctured and  shaped  by the round coring tool / slicer found at an orchard upstate when things were still made in this country.  The segments  drizzled with lemon juice, coated with brown sugar, cinnamon, flour, and a touch of nutmeg, began to ooze the  juices of pippins, macouns, galas, braeburns, granny smiths, honeycrisps.


She liked to eat the apple mixture raw before it's put into the dough.  She would have eaten half the pie filling cause she didn't like the pie.  She adored the fruit inside the pie especially all of those juices blended together.  Yesterday there were  many apples left without her to eat these juicy bits before their being baked in the pie.  It is a high pie as a result.


Description of Elizabeth January 19, 2000

The Two Elizabeths

1.  Description of Elizabeth Aakre
By Elizabeth Kester, 2000

"Hi!" she says with a jump as I enter the classroom.

"Hi." I say, still tired from waking up.

"Guess what."
"What?" I ask.

"I got a new shirt!" she grins.

I look at her. Her brown eyes are either shining brightly, lighting up the room, or after long Frankenstein rehearsals, tired. She has a big smile on her face. Little freckles lay on her dimples. A regular Pollyanna.

She zooms around the room, talking to many people, informing them of news. She engages in many conversations, and always contributes. When chatting, most students look up at her. She is a tall girl, and shorter than only a few people.

Playing soccer or basketball, there is rarely a time when we are not together. If you kick the ball, or score a basket, she cheers you on and gives you a high five.

Playing on the soft green grass at the East River, she kicks the soccer ball with all her might.

"Good job," I say to her as we set our defensive move. I kick it away from a member of the opposing team with a little swish.

"Go Elizabeth!" she yells enthusiastically.

"Thank you," I say which is my usual response.

Her straight brown hair swishes from under her hat as she gives another kick. I cheer for her and the game is over.

She can be shy. She sits quietly at her desk. If she is embarrassed she silently runs over to her friends and hides her face. When embarrassed, we both mutter something under our breath as if to say we are terrible.

If she gets upset, she deals with it. Eventually she will get over the problem and forget about it. It becomes hazy in her mind.

She makes many different voices. From talking in a baby lisp conversation, to making a little witch cackle, she almost always has an interesting voice.

2.  Description of Elizabeth Kester 
By Elizabeth Aakre 2000

As I walk into the room with her every one stares.  She is so smart and talented and smart that she is very well known.  In fact, Elizabeth is one of the smartest people in our grade!  Since every one knows this, she is often bothered for homework help.

I look at her, her light blue eyes are always twinkling with excitement.  She has a timid smile almost always, unless it's after volleyball practice, which is when our wrists and arms start to ache!

She sets her stuff down on my desk and grins at me.  This is an annoying habit that both of us have picked up since last year.  Since we sat together last year too, we took advantage of the opportunity and sumped stuff on each others desk at every possible time.

While stealing Zack's hat or playing volleyball, Elizabeth is always one of the best players!  Along with being a good team player, she is a great supporter!  Whether you just managed to knock his hat off or managed to steal it and run away with it, she is always supporting.

Elizabeth is one of the best friends I have .  Whether we need to have a good cry over Pacey and Joey, or to have a good laugh over Ian's funny movements, she's always there for you.  Especially if you have a secret.  I don't think that she has ever related one of my secrets to the rest of our friends.  I don't know what I'd do without you.


How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry