Motherhood and apple pie
By Jody Stump
In most things, my mother was virtuous. Oh, she giggled at a risqu joke and muttered the occasional irreverence when a minor calamity befell the household, but in most things my mother was honest, forthright and every inch a lady, from her carefully coiffed Breck Girl pageboy down to her gleaming Ferragamos. That’s why her perennial autumn sneakiness was such a puzzle to her family and the source of whispers in the neighborhood.
As the days began to dwindle into too-early dusk, Mother’s habits changed. She began to dash each time the phone trilled as though it might be Publisher’s Clearing House calling. And when the mysterious call finally came, she tumbled the dog and me into her cranky but treasured Packard convertible for a trek into the woods.
All weekend, the three of us crunched along trails, awed to whispers by the watery smudges of reds and yellows and a green that was almost black reflected in the spring-fed lake. When the shadows grew long on Sunday, Mother met Old Mr. Johnson for their annual tryst at his Apple Hill General Store, returning with a trunk full of the crispest McIntosh apples, jugs of cider to leave out in the snow to turn “hard,” and a big wheel of cheddar. Our last stop was always the Sugar Store. The scent of boiling sap heralded the arrival of a fragrance almost caramel but not as sweet, with a whiff of burning leaves. We bought big cans of syrup, but our mission was baking bars of maple sugar, for without this last essential ingredient the sacrament of Fall would be incomplete: Mom’s Apple Pie.
I peeled, I measured, I sampled, but never once did I see my mother make a pie. When assembly came, I was scooted out of the kitchen. An hour later, she’d emerged with a masterpiece so legendary it caused well-brought-up neighbors to beg at our doorstep. Twenty years later, as my mother lay wasting away from the cancer that finally killed her, I offered to make her a pie and asked her secret. It was then I discovered her vice. My mother was a culinary cheat-the crust was store-bought.
MOM’S APPLE PIE
Mother never wrote anything down, so this recipe is concocted from sensory memories-the jars and bottles on the countertop, the wicked, fiery taste of the uncooked apples before the Apple Jack had burned off its alcohol, the crunch of toasted nuts. But most of all, the spicy aromas that drifted through the house to welcome me home on days just cool enough for a hot maple-milk and a dish of Mom’s apple pie.
Pastry:
Any buttery crust you prefer. Keep it cold until you’re ready for filling. (Note: My “cheating” mom used Pillsbury).
Filling:
(Note: In selecting apples, make sure they are crisp, very flavorful and will hold together as they cook. Although my mother used fresh McIntoshes, those in our stores tend to be “mushy,” so try Granny Smiths)
6 to 8 apples
1 1/ 2 tbs. lemon juice
1/ 2 cup light brown or maple sugar
2 tsp. cinnamon
3/ 4 tsp. nutmeg
1/ 2 tsp. allspice
1/ 4 tsp. ground cloves
2 tbs. flour
3 tbs. Apple Jack, Calvados or cider
1/ 2 cup currants or dried cranberries
1 cup toasted and coarsely chopped walnuts, tossed in a little cinnamon sugar
2 – 4 tbs. heavy cream
1 egg white, lightly beaten with 1 tbs. water
2 tbs. cold butter
2 tbs. milk
1 – 2 tsp. cinnamon-sugar
Garnish: sharp Vermont cheddar
1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
2. Peel, core and thickly slice the apples. Toss with the lemon juice and set aside.
3. Whisk the spices with the sugar and flour and then toss with the dried fruit. Add to the apples, along with the hard cider or Calvados. Taste-if the apples seem a bit dry, add cream.
4. Place the bottom crust in a 9-inch pie pan. Brush with the egg white to keep the bottom crust from getting soggy. Spoon in the apples. Top with walnuts. Dot with butter.
5. Unfold the top crust over the filling. Trim the overhang to 1-inch and, with moist fingers, crimp the edges together.
6. Brush the top lightly with milk and sprinkle with the cinnamon-sugar. Cut a steam hole in the middle of the crust-any shape you like.
7. Bake in the center of the oven until the apples are tender, the juice is bubbling, and the crust is golden as autumn leaves. About an hour. Cool on a rack before serving with cheese.