In our soon-to-be released cookbook, "My Mom Invented BAD Food," Sherise and I share some of our most painful -- and some of our most poignant -- food memories. For me, the memory of pilfering apples from our neighbor is a 10 on the poignancy Richter scale. Below is a snippet:
It was in Manitou Springs, Colorado, during the summer of 1958. Our mother was ill with multiple sclerosis, and we lived on public assistance. By today’s rules, we three kids – my older brother, my younger sister and I – should have seen ourselves cast in a Dickens-like drama.
Instead, we saw ourselves as heroes in a grand adventure, particularly when the welfare check was late in coming and the pantry was all but bare.
“All but” that weekend allowed for a bag of flour, a little bit of sugar and some salt. And where a less determined woman might give up, our Mom said, “See if you can find some apples.”
We did, and Mom worked magic on the fruit. It was without doubt the best apple pie ever, and I think back on it with a sugared heart. How could that moment be matched? Oh, but it has.
Recently my brother, George, took a casual comment I made many months ago and ran with it. "I'm tired of tripping over snowdrifts," I groused about my home at 9,000 feet in elevation. "I want to step outside and pick an apple."
So, as a housewarming gift for my modest little winter digs in the wonderful community of Canon City, Colorado, George delivered and even oversaw the planting of a Golden Delicious tree for my front yard.
I have my very own apple tree! And it came with apples already on it! Now, when I acquire another for cross-pollination, I will call myself "orchardist" and make some pies. And isn't it grand that my pilfering days are, hallelujah, behind me for sure? KTG
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