Warm Apple Delight

The smell of the crisp autumn air hits my nose as I step off the front stoop on my way to my back yard orchard. I walk the path through the fruitful apple trees while the brown, brittle leaves crunch under my feet. I look up through the branches and see a beautiful combination of green leaves and ripe, red apples. Above the branches I see a bright, blue sky. The sun peaks through the leaves and onto my face. It warms me up against the cool October air. The over-ripened apples on the ground are covered in hungry ants scavenging for a sweet snack. I search the low branches in pursuit of the finest fruits. Blemish-free produce is hard to find unless you look all the way at the top of the trees. I extend both of my arms seeking to reach the highest apples. I grab a ruby red Granny Smith, place it in my basket, and return to my hunt for the perfect fruit. After I pick a full bushel, I carry it back along the path to the kitchen. I start to get excited thinking about the warm apple delight I am about to enjoy. I am ready to bake.

Juice runs down the blade of the knife as I start to peel each apple. The crisp white color of the inside stands out against the bright red color of the skin. The kitchen begins to smell like fall when I chop the fruit and mix in a special blend of spices. Into the bowl I dump an avalanche of baking soda, salt, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice. An aromatic plume of spicy smoke blows from the bowl as I mix the ingredients together. A cinnamon and nutmeg fragrance fills the air. The apple juices start to seep into the powdery mixture and create a sticky mess. I mix the two together covering all of the apple chunks with the flavorful sauce.

I let the apples soak in the seasoned sauce while I make the crust shell for the pie. I take the soft butter log and place it into the bottom of a bowl. On top of that I begin to cut in a powdery mixture. The butter starts to pull together all the grains of flour. It gets too thick to mix with a spoon, the dough tugs on it as if it was cement hardening after being poured. The spoon no longer stirs so I'm forced to mix with my hands. I squeeze the dough through my fingers, needing it. It brings me back to my childhood days and when I used to play with Play-Doh. I would make shapes and snakes and mountains with the think, sticky, clay-like substance. Feeling playfully silly, I shaped the crust into a smiley face before rolling it into a ball and placing it on flour dusted counter. I pound down the sphere so it becomes flat like a pancake. Then I take my rolling pin and squish it out in all directions. I roll across it, trying to make it a perfect circle. I try my best to avoid ripping the dough. When I do, I create a paste out of flour and water and patch it up. When it is a smooth circle, I flip it into the pie plate. The soft crust hangs over the edges like icicles in the winter. I carefully cut them off to create a perfect shell to hold the apples.

I pour the sweet and sticky apple mixture into the soft pie crust shell. I knead the chewy dough into braids and gently place them on top of the pie. It looks like a quilted blanket covering the overflowing apple mixture. The oven beeps, signaling that it is preheated; it is perfect timing. I open the door and am blown away by the plume of hot air that billows out.