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.

1 comment:

  1. 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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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