For some reason my mom and dad planted seven apple trees in the yard of their first house. I think that moving out from the city to the suburbs probably affected them in some way, and they fancied themselves to now be farmers. So growing up the first thirteen years of my life, we had apples, lots of apples. And because we had apples, we had apple pies, apple sauce, apple jelly, and rotten apples. The rotten apples were the ones on the ground and my brother and I had the responsibility of picking them up and throwing them away. So that means we also had rotten apple fights.
Yesterday Mark made me an apple pie. It was my reward for crawling around on my knees the last few days, installing that goddamned Pergo floor. I have to make a point very clear right here, seeing as Mark reads this blog. The pie was good. It was very tasty, it was better than store bought, and it was fresh. I absolutely liked it, and I appreciated it. I didn't love it. It wasn't my mother's apple pie. Because of all those apples in our yard my mother got very good at baking apple pies of every sort. To this day I can conjure up in my mind the flavor of her apple squares, which she called apple slices. Unfortunately, when I was thirteen we moved out of that house. Our new home did not have apple trees. It had no fruit trees at all, so the glut of pies slowed considerably. Like I said, I like the pie Mark baked. I will probably gain a few pounds this week, but still... It just didn't have that something about it that only Mom could add.