Apple Pie

I baked an apple pie yesterday.   Home made crust and fresh apples and all.

One of the nicest things about baking (maybe right next to eating it) are the memories that are called to mind with all the mixing, and stirring, and measuring, and peeling. 

I make good pie crust.  Now.  The first one I made, maybe 50 years ago, was so tough it permanently loosened the blade on the knife we used to cut it.

As I was peeling the apples I caught a glimpse in my mind's eye of an old woman I saw once somewhere in the country peeling apples on her front porch.  She was using one of the largest butcher knives I've ever seen, but still did a darn good job of peeling and she still had all her fingers.  (I'm not advocating the use of a butcher knife or any large knife to peel an apple or any other fruit or vegetable.  Just because she could do it, doesn't mean you can.)

My mother used to make her fruit pies rather thin.  I always thought she was just being frugal but I found out later in life that she made her pies thin because that's the way she liked them.  I like plump, juicy pies.

When I grate a nutmeg , the aroma takes me right back to Grandma's kichen with the red table and chrome chairs and Grandpa sitting on the end next to the back door.