Twelve to fifteen crisp green pie apples, four teaspoons of cinnamon, seven cups of brown sugar, six cups of flour, one cup water, and a dash of salt is what I need to make one apple pie. I reach for the ingredients in the cupboard, sorting through the assortment of spices: parsley, sage, rosemary, cumin, nutmeg, oregano, thyme, and garlic salt. I bite on my tongue, trying to ignore the way my mouth waters with the smells. I find the small gray container of hand ground cinnamon, a brown paper bag of natural brown sugar, and the wheat flour. I set the ingredients on the counter, and start to peel the skin off the apples. I remember a time when my brother, Kurrin, and I would have contests to see who could peel the longest skin. Grandma taught us that. I carefully slice the smooth green skin away, revealing the soft flesh that bruises so easily. The apples look bare without the bright, bitter, protective outer layer. The stripped orbs sit in a line on the counter, and one by one I pull them to me. Then slice them into perfect quarters. Every one must be the same size as the last one. The sliced apples fit in my old yellow bowl perfectly. I remember Grandma telling me once why they had to be the right size.
“If you cut some too big and some too small, they don’t cook the same,” she would say in her high falsetto voice that once sang opera. Her eyes would glint icy blue and her smile would light up her old wrinkled face. When she cooked for us, it was the easiest way of showing us her love. She would dance around the room in her soft black house shoes and pull whatever ingredients she would need to complete her recipe. She was a small woman, barely reaching five feet. She had an abnormally high waist, and slender legs which she accented with knee length skirts and heels. She always sang, even when she started to forget the words to all the songs. What I remember most is how she’d always say, “The most important thing is to put your heart and soul into your cooking. A good cook always sings while they work,” as she was putting the pie in the oven.
I shuffle the apples in the bowl, adding the sugar and cinnamon. I made the crust earlier, dabbing it with egg whites to keep it crisp and buttery. The oven is warm, and I bend down to open the door. The heat hits me head on, reminding me of the last pie my Grandma ever made. I put my rendition in the oven, shut the door, and sit on the floor. It wasn’t that long ago I did this for her. I tried to make it all better with a pie.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The rain falls outside of my window in a delicate mist. Clear glasslike drops catching on the glass of my window, the wind blowing them into stretched out oblong flutes. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the black pavement. The sky is endless black, the only light is from the many houses shadowing the street. The roads are shiny black, with rivers of water rushing down the middle of the yellow line. My cat is hiding near the garage, in the rosebushes Dad and I planted last year. The ambulance in my front yard has blinking red lights. They reflect off the wet ground. On. Off. I can’t take my eyes away from the lights. The emergency men are in the living room with my grandmother. I am in my room, where I ran and hid after she fell. She was only making dinner. She must be fine. She will be fine. She always makes pie. It’s what she does. She makes us pie every week.
I watch the uniformed men walk out the front door. They have a stretcher between them. My dad is holding my grandmother’s hand. His eyes are dark and expressionless in the dark of the porch. The bulb burnt out a while ago. I press my face against the glass, blowing a white circle of hot breath onto the cold glass. Where are they taking her? She has to finish the pie. They open the back of the ambulance, and pull the stretcher in. My dad hops in after them. The ambulance backs out the driveway, and turns onto the road. I watch the red lights until I can’t see them anymore. I climb off my bunk bed, and sneak out of my room. Cousin Jamie catches me in the hallway, grabbing my hand quickly.
“Lydia, your dad is going to the hospital with Grandma, he should be back later,” she says. When is Grandma coming home? I look up at her, the freckled nose, and short curly hair. She has red eyes. She has been crying. I nod at her, not sure where the hospital is. I pull my hand away from hers, and walk away.
The living room is bright, all the lights on. Uncle Jim and Robby are on the couch talking quietly. They look like complete opposites, Robby thin and wiry, Jim heavy set and lazy. It is like Curly and Moe from the Three Stooges. The television is on. I recognize it as the news my dad watches all the time. They are talking about the flooding and how everyone will remember the flood of 1996. My uncles haven’t noticed me. I don’t want them to see me. They are speaking intimately, probably about Grandma or the flooding. We lived near the Clackamas river, which had risen 7.5 inches this month alone. I see them point towards the kitchen, watch them start to bicker. I want to get away from them.
On my hands and knees I crawl to the kitchen. I stay close to the wall, scramble past the old iron heater, and onto the hardwood floor. It’s dusty and I can see an old bouncy ball underneath the base of the counter. My knees are starting to hurt as I scramble to where the ball is. It’s a half chewed and plastic blue. I bounce it around the corner, and then peek around to see where it rolled. The bowl Grandma had been mixing flour in is on the floor. There is white powder on the black tile. I crawl towards it and pick it up. It’s her old yellow one, with pretty engravings all over it. My blue jeans are covered in white. My hands feel sticky, I brush off my jeans, but they are still powdery. Pushing the bowl off my lap, I stand up next to the counter. There is a pile of half sliced apples, a jar of cinnamon, a silver paring knife, brown sugar, and a rolling pin. Moving around to the other side of the island, I climb onto a stool, and pull the apples closer. I pick up the knife, and try cutting one in half. It’s harder than it looks. Grandma does it so easily. I remember the way her small wrinkled hands slice the apples into perfect even pieces; her seventy-three year old hands much more experienced than my eight year old ones. I chop an apple into uneven pieces, and put them in the bowl. They are starting to brown, their inside skin feeling rough and dry. What does Grandma put in with the apples? I grab the brown sugar and pour some in. I can’t see the apples anymore, so I cup my hands and take some out. The brown sugar is sticky and I have to brush my hands together to get it off. That’s better. There is a bottle of cinnamon next to me. It makes me sneeze when I sniff it. I sprinkle some in, it is dark mahogany red. I take one of the pieces out and put it in my mouth. It tastes like apple and sugar, just like it should. One of the crusts is finished. I pull the glass pie pan to me, and pour the apples in there. There aren’t enough apples to fill the crust, but I don’t care. I have to finish making Grandma’s pie. Holding onto the pan carefully I slide off the chair, and to the oven. I open it up, the blast of heat hitting me in the face. I push it in avoiding the hot wire shelves, just like Grandma showed me. I shut the oven, and sit down in front of it.
“What are you doing Lydia?” my Uncle Rob says, bending down to my sitting height. I look at him and smile.
“Making Grandma’s pie.” He looks a bit shocked, pulls open the oven door and looks at the pie. He smiles, but his eyes look watery. He takes my hand, and sits next to me. I look at the oven, waiting for the smell of cooked apples, and buttery crust; waiting for Grandma’s smile and her wrinkly hands holding a hot pie, and dishing it out for us, waiting for her to come home.
*~*~*~*~*~*
The buzzer on the oven catches me from my moment. The dark kitchen is warm and filled with the scent of sweet apples. I stretch and scoot over to the oven, pulling open the door a crack to see inside. The pie sits there, with a perfectly browned crust, and the brown sugar topping a brownish yellow. The juices from the apples are bubbling up through the cracks in the crispy brown topping. My red oven mitts sit next to the stove. I slip them onto my hands to protect them and pull the heavy glass pan from the oven. I set it on the stove, pull out my whipped cream, and ice cream, four plates, and start to slice the hot pie. I place a piece on each plate, douse it in whipped cream, and put a scoop of ice cream next to it.
“Mom, Kurrin, Tor, Natalie!” I yell towards the living room. I hear rustling of feet; as if people standing and stretching. I look at my four perfect little pieces of pie, smile, and say a small thanks to Grandma. My sister, Victoria, slides into the kitchen, a groggy look in her eyes. She grabs a plate greedily. She hugs me on her way out.
“Thanks, Lydia,” she says quietly. “I love you.” I look at her with her pretty hazel eyes and dark hair. I love you too.
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Lydia Emily
