It was a beautiful Fall Day, and the first hint of chill was in the air, so we decided to do some family apple picking at an orchard in New Hampshire. Apples are the go-to lunchbox fruit in our house: the small one and I like macintosh; the oldest digs the red delicious. We picked for an hour in sunshine, bagged up our perfect apples, visited with friends, drank cider, and walked to the car, tired and just starting to complain about apple bellyaches. We picked a bushel or a peck or one of those, and we staggered under the weight of our bags . . .
And as we trudged to the car, we were distracted by a hawk flying overhead, and small one dropped his peckish bushel all over the street. Apples rolled everywhere, under car tires, into gutters, across roads. We picked up as many as we could manage, but I knew those soft, gravelly spots were not going to get any prettier.
My kids are those kids who WON’T eat bruised fruit. I’m not proud to say it, but maybe it’s the fate of all parents; my mother probably never had an unblemished piece of fruit until my brother and I went to college.
When we arrived in our home state and unpacked, the apples were a mess. I tried to pass some off in lunchboxes, but they returned home. I tried to be angry, but they were sort of gross looking. I tried cutting them up, and even started thinking about applesauce, and then, we get the directive here at work: bring some pie crust home to try!
Pie dish, check. Bruised apples, peeled, spiced, and sweetened, check. Oven preheated, crust at room temp, gently unrolled, perfect apples formerly known as bruised apples heaped onto bottom crust, gently unrolled top crust, pierced edges, made bumpy to mimic authenticity, baked.
You should have seen those bruised apples fly from the table . . .