Falling for mama’s pies
"Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile." ~William Cullen Bryant
An old screened door and daddy’s saw horses, the first two ingredients in mama’s fried apple pies.
Apple season mirrored sorghum syrup season; daddy would go further into the mountains, Ellijay and Blairsville, and load the bed of his pea green Chevy truck with bushels of apples—or cases of sorghum syrup dependent upon the season. We would have goodness coming out our ears.
Of course, raw apples suited me just fine. I’d watch daddy peel an apple with his trusty pocket knife without ever breaking the peeling. That curvy marvel would cascade to the floor, and I’d immediately pick it up, amazed that he could do such a thing. I promised myself that one day, I would be that talented.
We’d cook some, bake some, stew some, can some, and dry some.
Mama waited for the hottest days possible. In our front yard, daddy brought the saw horses from the shed and carefully placed the selected screen door flat on top of the two horses. After what seemed like hours that morning of slicing apples, we would take the slices and arrange them in one layer on the screen. Mama would cover the entire screen with cheese cloth, ensuring that bugs had no chance at our jewels.
Days passed. I watched each day as mama would raise the cloth, squeeze the slice, lower the cloth.
Finally, it was time.
She’d gather all the dried apple slices, and we’d put them in freezer bags for the winter. All those apple slices were put up, except a few. These went into a pot where they boiled until they turned a silky amber. I’d sneak a spoonful, but not much. There were greater things ahead.
After making homemade biscuit dough, she’d roll out the dough razor thin and cut it into even squares. She’d scoop a spoonful of cooked dried apples and dollop it in the center of the square. Folding the dough around the filling, she mashed the sides together until not an ounce of juice escaped. It always amazed me that she knew the right portion of apples to put on that spoon so as not to lose any out the sides.
Then, the edges of a fork sealed the deal.
It was getting closer. I could almost taste the pies.
Then into a hot black skillet, she would throw a stick of butter. And at the perfect time, she’d place each pie delicately in its place. Four fit perfectly. At the right time, she’d flip each pie, showcasing its toasty, crunchy goodness. Then, one by one, they were retrieved and laid on paper towels.
And when it was time, she’d glance down at me, awarding permission to grab the very first fried apple pie of the season. I don’t think I ever loved my mama any more than I did that very minute.
Today, I can’t pass Jaemor Farm or Mercier Orchards without visiting their pie shops and ordering a dried apple pie. As good as these pies are, they can’t hold a candle to mama’s. But they sure do take me back, and that’s good enough for me.
