When I was young, early every fall our elderly neighbor would bring by a large paper bag filled with McIntoshes he’d picked out in the country. Those apples were nothing like the store-bought specimens sealed in plastic bags that we ate the rest of the year. Mr. Holt’s apples still had their leaves on, and were vividly lime-green and red. And unlike their grocery store counterparts, they had a crisp bite and a lemon-and-honey contrariness to their juice.
Mr. Holt took pity on us. He was soft-spoken and gallant, always dressed in a pressed flannel shirt buttoned to the collar. He would cross the street with the sack of apples held close to his chest, then hand it to my mother with grave ceremony. He’d leave as suddenly as he’d come; I remember watching from the window as he disappeared into the shadows cast by the purple beech trees that dwarfed his house. An ancient air hung about the scene: Mr. Holt’s bright white hair, the beeches that were more dinosaur than tree, the house made of smooth gray rocks, gnarled wisteria vines reaching toward its dark windows. I wondered if this was what grandfathers were like.
After Mr. Holt’s visit, we’d set about making pie. The simpler, the better was my mother’s motto, with cooking as with most everything else. We kids sat around the small gingham-covered kitchen table helping peel, core, and slice with our old everyday knives. In my mother’s square hands, the apple peels came loose in long rosy spirals. My hands were small and clumsy and had trouble grasping the whole fruit as I scraped off irregular patches. But no matter, the job got done. We mixed the cut apples with cinnamon sugar, then reached into the bowl to sneak slices into our mouths. Rolling out the dough took concentration and a light touch. This is the way we learned how to use our hands and to cook. The radio would be playing in the background, and dusk would be fast turning to night.
Nothing bad could happen when we were making apple pie, could it? The project bought us some time. There was a recipe in the middle of the table, and we were following it. We were focused. If my father came home, how could he be angry seeing us like this? Besides, the smell of apples cooking is something special in the world. Throw in the peppery whiff of pie spice and the browning butter of the crust, and you have the very essence of a happy home. An extra kindness is that the scent lingers, and you can smell the sweetness of apples in your own hair as you lie in bed late at night, listening for the sound of the back door and familiar footsteps. And for a little while after that there are small noises from the kitchen—a plate laid on the table, the fridge door thumping closed.
Karina Borowicz is the author of three poetry collections: Rosetta (Ex Ophidia, 2021), Proof (Codhill Press, 2014), and The Bees Are Waiting (Marick Press, 2011). Her poems, essays, and reviews have appeared widely in journals, anthologies, and other media. She cooked professionally for many years and sometimes blogs about food at http://repast.home.blog. Her author’s website can be found at http://karinaborowicz.com.
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