Today is the quintessential autumn day: sunny skies, wispy clouds, bright green grass, the slight chill in the air. Perfect. I love days like this. They make me want to drink warm mulled cider, and roast marshmallows, and bake apple pies.
I haven’t baked an apple pie in ages. I’m not particularly great at it, mostly because I have yet to conquer the art of the perfect pie crust. I’ve spent years trying to succeed to no avail, so now I *gasp* purchase them pre-made. Please don’t hold it against me. I just want my pies to be edible.
My grandfather loved apple pie. He would always eat his slice with a hunk of cheddar cheese. After my grandmother passed away, I would drive out to visit him from college, every few weeks or so, and bake him a fresh apple pie. I am grateful for the time we shared on our short visits and all the things he taught me…and that he didn’t mind that I didn’t make the crust from scratch. My memory of him will always be intertwined with apple pie.
The last time I looked at the recipe was when I handed out copies at Grampa’s funeral. I haven’t made apple pie since. But today, I’m kind of in the mood for it, with a bit of cheddar on the side. Perhaps it’s time to throw on an apron, dust the counter with flour, and attempt, yet again, to bake the perfect apple pie.