For the next few days, writing takes a backseat to cooking, fussing, eating, drinking, family and friends. Traditions matter, and one of mine is making pies–two apple, two pumpkin, the day before Thanksgiving. The bird will leave no room for pie bakingtomorrow. Plus, whoever said easy as pie should never be allowed to eat a single slice. Pies–when you do them from scratch–are a lot of work, and a lot of time.
But the satisfaction of making them, smelling them cook, is worth it. Plus, eating them. I make damn good pie.
I baked mine today while the first snow of the season fell outside the windows. The first is always the prettiest, and somehow the sweetest. And since they’re now calling for about six inches rather than the threatened twelve, I’m enjoying it quite a bit.
Right now, the extra apples are quartered and simmering on the stove so I can make my mother’s signature applesauce. This I’ll do from memory and taste, as I can’t find my scribbled recipe. And making it will bring her back for a little while, and that’s a lovely thing.
Tomorrow it’s the big-ass turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes and all the sides–and my kitchen will be my chaotic hub. But this afternoon, with my pies cooling and scenting the house, the snow falling outside to blanket my woods, it’s nice to have the quiet, and the anticipation of friends and family.
I wish you all the happiest of Thanksgivings, lovely food, sparkling wine, the warmth of friends and family gathering. And, if you’re like me, a little quiet time to count your blessings.