I don’t make pie very often – but when I do make pie, it’s apple. Most fruits seem too sweet to me, but just-ripened apples, with some cinnamon and just a little sugar, make a wonderful pie filling. I use my mother’s recipe because her pie can’t be beat. She makes apple pie often in the fall: when she mentions to me that she’s been making pie, I always make sure to stop and visit, knowing that she’ll put the tea kettle on as soon as I pull in the driveway.
I’ve been making apple pie pretty often this fall, which is unusual for me. Normally, I just wait for mother to send over one of hers.
I’m not sure what started this surge of domesticity. My daughter blames Artist Friend, who made a blueberry pie when he visited this summer. (It’s true that every time I serve one of my kids a piece of pie, I say, “So my pie is better than Artist Friend’s, isn’t it?” Not that I’m competitive.) But a bigger factor is that Boy in Black and Shaggy Hair Boy are living up at Snowstorm University. When they stop home, I like to have homemade pie to serve them.
When my daughter came home for Labor Day, I picked her up at the train station, brought her home, and immediately put on the tea kettle. As she talked, telling me about her first week of grad school, I poured cups of tea and cut slices of pie. As I sat down at the kitchen table to chat, I had a sudden realization.
“Oh, god. I’ve turned into my mother.”
She laughed and took a bite of pie. “Yeah, a little bit.”
Then she added, as she continued to eat the pie. “But that’s a good thing.”
