Of all our senses it is the sense of smell that sends rushes of memories through your mind.
Early this morning I walked down to Home Farm. The trees in the small orchard were hung round with apples.
Like a gathering of Christmas Trees.
I held a fresh picked apple to my nose and instantly I am a child again.
The first of the McIntosh apples had arrived. A wooden box full of apples, shining like precious rubies, filled the kitchen with fragrant perfume. They were like rare and beautiful jewels from an exotic place called The Okanagan. A brilliant coloured painted vista of apple trees, pasted to the end of the wooden box, created a picture in my mind that The Okanagan must be a place like Oz.
Breathless with excitement I looked for the perfect apple. The apple with a bit of leaf attached to the stem. Then the first bite – crisp, crunchy with a glorious tart flavour that made the back of my tongue tingle. That day I discovered what the saying “the apple of my eye” was all about.
I carried these childhood memories of the supreme joy of apples home and into the kitchen. There I baked them into the perfect apple pie.
Still warm from the oven I cut two big slices. Made a lovely pot of Darjeeling tea. Then Lar and I carried our indulgences out into the sunny afternoon.
You can share this pleasure. Just click on the name THE CLASSIC APPLE PIE and start baking.