Apple Pie

My mother had gone to her mother’s for a month-long visit, leaving my father, brother and myself alone to fend for ourselves. I was in charge of the kitchen and all the meal preparation, well at least dinner. I had recently started dating the man (really a boy) who would become my husband, I decided it was a good time to showcase my cooking skills. I invited him and planned the meal. It was nothing fancy, just a meat and potato supper but I knew from our dates that my guest liked desserts, apple pie in particular.

We had an old apple tree in the yard loaded with apples. They were still a little green but I knew a little extra sugar was the solution. The apples had imperfections like worm holes, bee stings and bruises, I gathered windfalls and filled a large container. I took the container to the house and set to peeling, coring, removing blemishes and slicing. Finally I had enough slices to make the recipe. I set about making the crust. When the pie came out of the oven, it looked passable—my crusts never looked like the pictures but they always tasted good.

That evening, we all sat down at the dinner table and started on the main course. Everything was going well and even seconds were asked for. Then it was time for the piece resistance. I brought out the apple pie and it was met with smiling anticipation. I cut a piece for everyone with an extra large piece for my intended. Dad and my brother took a taste and they thought the pie was fine. The extra sugar was just right and the apples were firm and not mushy.

Then my boy friend took a bite. He shouted, “This pie is RAW! I do not like raw pie!”

I learned he liked mushy apples in his pie. In fact his preference was one step away from apple sauce.

Oh well! He married me anyway and in future years the apples were turned into cider.