By Ed Baranosky
In Australia and Argentina the cold of winter is just beginning to leave. In October, Connecticut is just starting to get a little frosty. It’s apple-picking time. Macs and tart Granny Smiths are being plucked from trees. In kitchens the sounds of rolling pins are heard as mothers and grandmothers roll dough for piecrusts. Their aprons are covered with white flour and some have a little white dust on their noses while they hum a happy tune.
This time of year the aroma of cinnamon and baking apple pie is in the air. The anticipation of a slice of homemade pie with a scoop of ice cream after supper cannot be described. There is nothing this side of heaven like the look Heaven on a grandmothers face as she watches her grandchildren fork a delightful bit of pie into their mouths.
In 1938 I was 10 years old. Walking home from a friend’s house who lived about a mile away, I saw an apple tree growing along the side of the road. I stopped and picked a few and put them in my pocket. I was eating one when I got home. In our kitchen my mother saw me and asked where I had gotten the apple. I told her about the tree. She got an old flannel shirt, tied the sleeves, buttoned it up and sent me to get some apples.
The apples were green and a little buggy. That didn’t matter. My mother simply peeled the apples, trimmed out the buggy part and baked one of the most delicious apple pies I had ever eaten.