Each day now brings more color. It is color that eventually finds its way to the ground. Like the gorgeous apples that I have been collecting for the past few weeks from the five beauties in my home’s meadow, globes of bright red dotting the trees and finding their way to the ground for any hungry creature to find. There are surprisingly many firm intact specimens to choose from, otherwise untouched by insect boring or animal tasting.
The first apple pie I made was within hours of collecting, the energy of fresh imbuing it with a lip-smacking delectable akin to sacred. Even the remnant of the pie that was frozen and re-warmed was perfect. The second pie made two days ago also fell into this category, though everything about its making was distinctly different from the first. The apples had already been sitting in my collection basket for many days, and though still firm, I could feel a distinct difference in the yield of the flesh as I trimmed skin and cut each beautiful fruit into slices, not as crisp. The dough, made exactly as I always have but this time with a different kind of butter, was overly soft. I forgot to add flour to the apples, sugar, and spices and had to improvise incorporating it into the filling after it had been loaded into the bottom crust in the pie plate. The mound of apples wasn’t as high as before and I realized I used a tablespoon of butter more than usual to the filling before adding the top crust. All small deviations to a way that I hoped would yield yet another memorable pie.
It’s been awhile since I have had a phrase pass through my mind so insistently. It started yesterday, walking in the cool morning at sunrise. I am apple pie.
‘I am’ places ‘me’ in the center of this thought. And yet, walking in the morning beauty, in the quiet spectacular that surrounds me, ‘I am’ is simply just a channel for beauty, the center of any moment, to flow through.
“Apple” carries meaning as old as time. Fruit of the tree that changed forever the relationship between man and woman. The promise of nourishment comes freely and unconditionally every single season. The variety of shape and flavor and texture and size is vast, each type representative of a place it chooses to thrive in. The season of apple brings crisp and colorful energy to a day, and the anticipation of something leaving to make room for something new.
“Pie” is an assemblage. Its form is one of containment and concentration, bringing a diversity of ingredients together to be transformed. The approach to making pie can be scientific, precise ingredients put together in a precise way to make something that can be identified as pie. Or, making pie can be considered a way. It can follow a process, and, the very nature of the moments that yield each ingredient, the way it is prepared and baked, the very air that it lives in, will produce something unique, never to be replicated exactly the same way again. Pie is art. Pie is delicious. Pie is comfort. Pie can be warm or cold, soft or firm, sweet or savory. The outside of a pie is merely the skin holding an inside work of art that wants to be revealed, tasted, and honored.
I am apple pie. The energy of this moment contains a vastness just waiting to be tasted.