“Mom! You’ve had the magazine for two weeks and never told me?”
“Honey, I didn’t know. I thought it was just a regular magazine, not the one you are published in. I’ll go and get it right now to look.”
She sets the phone down and I hear her small feet stomp off across the floor followed by yelling curses as piles of papers, dishes and dog treats crash down as she looks for the magazine. Eventually she finds it and the sounds of avalanches transition back to stomping feet towards the phone.
Breathless and agitated my mom says, “Ok, I found it right on top of my mail. (Yeah right mom.) Now let me look for your article.” Pages of the magazine flip, flip, pause so she can lick her finger to get better traction to continue her furious flipping, flip, flip, “Ah!!!! Here it is! The Great Apple Pie Bake. Oh, it looks so nice.”
“Great,” I reply. “Can you bring that when you come to visit me in Vermont next week Mom?”
No response.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
“Mom!”
“Oh, what, I’m reading the article now. Oh your old apron. You used to love that! Can I call you back honey? I can’t concentrate anymore, I’ve got to finish reading this.”
And such went the our conversation regarding my first story published in Country magazine. This week I am celebrating the publication of a fond childhood story in the Oct/Nov issue of Country magazine. It was cut down for edits, so below I’m putting in the original version which to give more context. I hope you enjoy!
I love all the beautiful photographs in Country magazine.
There it is.
In the print on page 47.
Here’s the original piece:
Grandma’s Apple Pie
“Wait! Watch out! That one is going to be crushed. Move it quick!”
Keeping my fingers well out of the way I watch as the coffin size lid of our freezer is carefully closed. Finally, the last of the apple pies has been safely stored away.
Not having any relatives living in the same state as me and my sister, my grandma and relatives made a point of coming to stay with us several times throughout the year. The great fall apple harvest was perhaps one of the messiest and joyful times of the year.
After days of preparation helping my mom clean the house, my sister and I anxiously counted down the hours till our company would arrive. Upon much jumping and yelling to welcome our guest for their safe arrival, it would take a matter of hours for our kitchen to transform from a normal eating establishment to an explosive war zone of flour.
Grabbing the handles of the wooden apple baskets my sister and I led the march up to the orchard followed by a line of horses, dogs, cats, and relatives. We meandered our way from tree to tree selecting the best apples.
“No Mighty Mite! That one is not for you!” my sister scolded our red pony, who was sure these baskets of apples were being picked just for her. Upon being shooed away Mighty Mite would run back to the rest of the herd. The other horses, knowing they had the attention of these horse loving new comers, would gallop circles around the orchard showing off their best bucks and kicks to the crowd. Each horse would take their turn to come in for a scritch, sneak an apple, be shooed away, and then charge off into the rays of sunshine. This cycle repeated all afternoon against the cloudless backdrop as we filled basket after basket with fresh apples.
Lugging the baskets into the kitchen the inability to open most of the cupboard draws signaled that the great fall apple harvest was fully underway. And I was ready for it. Ensuring not to tangle the strings, I pulled my red polka dot, frilly reindeer cooking apron over my head. The next days we all lived with a constant coating of white flour as we washed, peeled, cored, and cut apples combined with mixing and rolling yards of pie crust.
I know conversation flowed non-stop, yet none of the words stick in my mind. I could only guess it was the usual talk of cousins, house repairs, pet’s birthdays, and guessing how many pieces of gum my sister was currently chewing. What I remember is the closeness of the time spent together. Squeezing extra chairs all around the tiny brown table with its skinny legs that stuck out just enough for me to always stub my toe on. Working a fresh ball of pie dough into pancake form, flopping it down on the table to be rolled and watching the puffs of flour float into the air all around it. Having my annual battle to brush Aunt Karen’s hair which I loved to braid and never seeming to understand that it was impossible to pull a brush threw her tightly curled hair.
For reasons unknown, my best guess being that my family seems to enjoy shiny things, we’d wrap all these pies in layers upon layers of aluminum foil until we were absolutely sure they were air tight. The pies were divided up so everyone got their own mountain of what looked like a stack of mini UFO’s. Our pies where always kept in the right hand size of our giant chest freezer.
As a young child I felt whenever I needed to pry open that lid I found a comforting reminisce looking at the slightly frosted, yet still shiny pile of wrapped pies. Inevitably as the stack got smaller and bags of corn and broccoli were tossed on top of them, a treasure hunt would ensue to dig down and emerge triumphant with the wrapped pie.
As a married adult I continue on this tradition of making apple pies each harvest season. I have made some slight alterations, such as sprinkling cinnamon and sugar on the top layer to ensure the memory of my husband’s grandma lives on as well. And each year, no matter which kitchen we are in, there is nothing else in the world like “Grandma’s Apple Pie.”
Previous Post
Next Post
Wonderful Fall story!
Thanks. Nothing like a freshly baked apple pie!
Great story. I get such warm fuzzy feelings inside as I read it thinking what a great childhood memory this is and how wonderful it would have been to be a part of it! Then I stop and think that every time the word “sister” that it is me!! The writing is very professional! Well done and congratulations!
Indeed you are the sister!! Oh it was fond childhood memories and boy did you chew a lot of gum! 🙂