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.
The high pie is lovely, and I know you'd trade anything for a skinny, flat one. This is better for photographing, that's all.
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