We begin by talking for an hour
about the kids, her church, dad’s health,
and how we both cry when we see acts of goodness.
We clean the kitchen. Address one mess
before starting the next. Then we peel apples,
marvel at their size—how much larger
they must be than in the time of Fanny Farmer,
who thinks we might need eight tart apples
for our nine-inch crust. Fanny, even a hundred years later,
you are still synonymous with precision,
organization and good food. And, as I recall,
you, too, practiced your art in your mother’s kitchen.
As it is, seven apples in 2018 are enough
to fill two generous crusts. Oh Fanny,
some things have changed, for instance
this Granny Smith, large as my fist. But some things
are exactly the same. A level teaspoon
is still a level teaspoon. The simplest recipes
are still often the best. And it’s still so good
to make a pie with your mother, talking
about all of life’s loose ends, measuring sugar,
filling the crusts, then cleaning up the mess
as the scent of sweetness touches everything.
Apple pie is my all time favorite as is your last line in this poem. I still use my mother’s recipe for apple pie and remember her when I cook. Thank you Rosemerry!
How fun to cook with our mothers in different kitchens together … apple pie is also my favorite (except for strawberry rhubarb, which is my other favorite).