There is something about making homemade apple pie. I felt like I was giving Hans and me a gift–the apple pie was my love made visible.
Many people associate these feelings with bread–when you make bread you’re with it for hours, watching it, babying it, taking care of it’s temperature, gluten, and then shaping it, baking it, and tapping the hollow bottom. I love making bread, but because of the final product, not the process. The process is just the process. It’s the end result that makes me happy–I know what is in my bread and I can pronounce all the ingredients (flour, water, salt, yeast).
Making the apple pie, on the other hand, was such a cozy cooking project. I rubbed the butter into the flour, carefully pulled the pastry dough together, meditated while I peeled, cored and sliced the apples, and carefully lay the top crust over the apples, pinching the edges. Into the oven and the boat was filled with the smell of fall.
I made the pie with the intention of serving it at a potluck tonight. Good thing I still have a whole bowl of apples to make an apple crumble–there is no way Hans and I can look at that pie all day without having another piece!