The Alchemy of Apple Pie

The Christmas I was twenty-three years old, the women in my family stopped baking.  Christmas had always overflowed with special Scandinavian treats and usually, there was a consultation amongst my mom and grandmas over who made what and how many.  Spritz cookies in the shape of little trees; krumkake, a batter fried in a special decorative two-sided iron, rolled into a cone and filled with whipped cream; and, always, without fail, my Great Grandma Anna’s legendary apple pie. The pie was a tradition, a recipe that had arrived from Norway with Great Grandma Anna and been handed down through three American generations. It was a tangible treat that tasted like love until 1987, when all of our ovens went dark.

It wasn’t always that way.  My love affair with baking began when I was eight years old and Great Grandma Anna introduced me to the wonders of flour, sugar, and shortening.  She taught me how to make bread.  An aromatic comfort slathered with butter and jam, served up warm, and eaten piece by piece, the crunch of the crust surrendering to the pillowy white inside. She instructed me on cake-making.  Whip, whip, whipping the batter until it came out of the oven transformed into heavenly honeycomb. Every bite a confection flavored with airy sweet vanilla and the essence of celebration.   

When I was eight, Great Grandma Anna taught me how to make pie.  As a child, I possessed a voracious sweet tooth and her apple pie was my favorite.  She knew it and sometimes, she even made a special, child-sized pie only for me.  

The day I learned about pie, I stood by her side, watching the cloud of flour sifting into the big mixing bowl and hearing the “thunk” of pieces of cold lard landing on top.  My head barely cleared the counter and her tall frame stooped down to talk me through her wizardry. 

“First, we cut the lard into the flour.” she said, her hands drumming two butter knives up and down, the flash of silver leaving pea-sized pebbles of flour, dusty white.

“Next, we add the secret ingredient,” she whispered, “Ice water.  Not just water, but ICE water.”

“Why is it a secret?” I whispered back.

“Because ice water keeps the lard cold enough it won’t melt. Add just a tablespoon at a time until the crust comes together.”

“Why can’t we just add it all at once?” I proudly made brownies all by myself, measuring and mixing the ingredients together in one bowl. 

“Pie crust is tricky. Too much water turns it into glue, but too much flour makes it tough.  For pie crust, you have to feel it.”

Great Grandma Anna stuck her big knuckled-fingers into the bowl and scooped out a handful.  She bent toward me, “Give me your hand. Can you feel it? Is this right?”

I considered the pale sandy bits in my kid-sized palm, nestled into her larger, stronger hand.  I squeezed my fingers together in a fist and looked.  The dough had come together.  It was right.  I could feel it.

Smiling, Great Grandma lifted me up onto a stool, overseeing me as I captured every errant morsel of dough, squishing until I’d created one big solid boulder.

“Now, we make a mess!” Great Grandma told me as she reached into the flour canister, grabbed a handful and scattered it across the worn formica.  She plopped half the dough down and wielded her rolling pin - swish-swish-swish-swish. Seconds later she had a crust that she flipped over and, with more swishes, it was as thin and smooth as glass.  Then, she set it in the pan, where it waited, anticipating the mound of apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar she poured onto it. Lickety-split, Great Grandma rolled out the top crust, expertly pinched the edges, and set it in the oven.

An hour later, the whole family sat down to enjoy cold glasses of milk with slices of warm apple pie, the crust melting delicately in our mouths, accompanied by the tart taste of apple followed by the cozy flavors of cinnamon and sugar.  

Great Grandma Anna lived to be ninety-one years old and she went to her grave as she had lived, baking until her arthritic hands forced her to stop.  Luckily, my grandmother had also learned her way around the kitchen, baking cookies, cakes, fritters and donuts, along with our beloved apple pie.  

My mother also inherited “the gift”.  Some sort of sweet of always sat on the kitchen counter when I was growing up. Occasionally, I’d contribute my own treats: chewy brownies embedded with pecans, and fluffy yellow cake heavy with fudge icing.  But I never made pie.  It was the province of the older, wiser women and I was still just a kid.

And then, everything changed.  I was twenty-three and Mom was only forty-six when colon cancer ran rampant into her stomach and liver.  She died five months after her diagnosis, in the early hours of Christmas Eve. 

After her death, especially because of the day on which she died, our Christmas collapsed.  No one baked anything that year.  For me, the holidays curdled, ruined forever. 

In my mid-20’s, I finished college with a degree in Food Science. For this, I used a laboratory instead of a kitchen, parceling out ingredients weighed in grams on an electronic scale. My senior project was a sugar-free, fat-free chocolate cake filled with chemical replacements for butter and oil, used to bind the batter into cake.  It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great.  At home, the bitter taste of grief spilled into everything I baked.  After graduating, I quit.

When I entered my 30’s, my tastebuds awakened.  I began craving a home-baked chocolate chip cookie, its crisp, buttery bite a bit of savory before the bittersweet chocolate melted on my tongue. I made them. I wanted an oven-fresh brownie that became chocolatey goo in my mouth while my teeth crunched walnuts and powdered sugar dusted my lips.  I made those too.

One day, I yearned for one of Great Grandma Anna’s apple pies.  I dug through my recipes until I found the raggedy old one, passed down through generations.  It listed only the ingredients with approximate quantities, hinting that I would have to “feel it” all alone. I sifted my sadness into the flour and mourned the loss of my mom all over again. 

I did what I believed was right, but the pie wasn’t.  The top crust was pale and chewy and when cut open, the apples were half raw.  The bottom crust was swamped with apple juice. Looking at the ruined pie, grief swallowed me up.  What if I couldn’t get it right? Had the recipe died along with my mom?  Would this legacy stop with me?

No.  I decided my determination would be stronger than my grief.  Bolstering myself, I did what food science had trained me to do: experiment.  

I used butter instead of lard, which was better. I put cornflakes on the bottom crust to soak up the juice, but goopy liquid remained inside the pie. I tried different kinds of apples. I remembered what Great Grandma Anna had said about ICE water.  Improved, but still not good enough.

I continued with what worked, and changed what didn’t, asking myself, “Do I feel it? Is it right?” like my great grandmother had.  Heritage and education came together, and finally, one day, I sat down with a cold glass of milk and ate a warm slice of homemade apple pie.  And it was so good, I ate another.  I felt the presence of my mom, grandmother, and great grandma Anna, sitting at the table with me.  Somehow, the motions of stirring and rolling had brought them back, mimicking the hugs and kisses we had given each other. I thought that, like pastry, I had endured the heat of an oven and come out with a tougher crust and a softer, sweeter inside, my memories embedded into flavor.

  My husband and I married when I was thirty-four and we hosted our first Christmas Day dinner that year.  Understanding my holiday mourning, he convinced me to make a Great Grandma Anna apple pie.  His mom made such a big deal about it, the pie has become an annual tradition. Again.

I was forty-nine when we adopted two children from Russia, twelve year-old Andrei and his nine year-old sister Svetlana.  A month after they arrived, they tasted apple pie for the first time on Thanksgiving.  Although they hadn’t learned English yet, the international language of food overcame our communication barrier.  

After one bite, Svetlana said, “Mama!  YES!  MORE!”

For Christmas, I brought her into the kitchen.  She watched me peel apples and sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar.  She watched me mix butter, flour and ice water together and then - swish, swish, swish - I rolled out the dough.  Crust, apples, crust, pinch, oven, done.  I felt it all, coming together, as she watched me. 

Even though my matriarchs are gone, whenever I bake, I am reminded of who I am.  When I peel and core apples, I’m my mom; when I mix the flour and butter, I am my grandmother; and when I scatter flour across the counter, I’m my Great Grandma Anna. I’ve claimed my place in a line - my line - of women bonded by the alchemy of apple pie.  

It’s been thirty-three years since Mom died. These days, when the smell of apple pie wafts through the house, Svetlana sits, awaiting the heavenly combination’s arrival from the oven.  With a fork in one fist and pounding the table with the other, she chants, “I want pie. I want pie!” 

In my mind’s eye, I envision the future, where I see our silhouettes, side by side. I’m holding her hand in mine, carefully placing ingredients in her palm and asking, “Can you feel it, Svetlana?”