Few foods find themselves intertwined with the highs and lows of life. Chicken noodle soup is reserved for an illness. Chocolate cake is reserved for a promotion at work. Pumpkin bread fills all the in-betweens. Eating a slice of pumpkin bread gives me the ultimate food warm and fuzzies.
As the leaves turn from yellow to brown, the smell of homemade apple pie fills permeates my house. I love opening the door to the smell of butter, cinnamon, apple, and sugar. Apple pie lends a level of nostalgia to the holidays that makes the endeared Thanksgiving pumpkin pie jealous. I’ve heard what sound like fairy tales of my grandmother Ruth’s fried apple pies and her homemade apple pies. I never got to taste these fabled treats, but my mother has kept their memories alive. Unfortunately, she does not have the recipes to pass along – since no one expected her to die so young. The dollops of butter carefully placed on the top of this pie are an ode to the memory of my grandmother Ruth. According to my mother, I still haven’t perfected the amount of cinnamon.
Buy fresh turkey from grocery store (with three children in tow). Buy fresh chestnuts. Roast fresh chestnuts. Peel fresh chestnuts (with three children running around the kitchen with assorted rackets and balls). Make chestnut stuffing (while hoping children have found cartoons on TV to watch). Make cranberry dressing. Clean house for guests. Set table with china. Serve Thanksgiving lunch. Put up all food and clean all china (hoping everyone is in a tryptophan induced nap instead of having a shaving cream war in the bathroom). I really don’t know how my mom managed to host Thanksgiving…but she did for years without much complaint.
