My friend Jason has on more than one occasion asserted that his mother’s apple pie is the ONLY apple pie for him.
In case you’re new to this blog, I’m fairly serious about pie. Perhaps a little too serious. At some point it became sort of a mission of mine to produce an apple pie that Jason liked. Well, that’s not completely true. I once said I’d NEVER bake an apple pie for Jason in fact I said, “what was I thinking? I can’t bring an apple pie to Jason and Slava’s house. That’s culinary SUICIDE.”
I tend toward the dramatic.
So last night I set out to bake an apple pie because my dear neighbor Cheairs had gone apple picking and gave me a whole bag straight from Carter’s Mountain Orchard. When I began to bake I wasn’t thinking about how later, we’d be seeing Jason and how I’d most likely bring the pie with me. I just bake. A lot. And I had these apples, see?
So for some reason, this particular apple pie turned out exceptionally well. A baker friend of mine saw it and called it “glorious” — the adjective I have adopted for this pie, forever and ever, amen.
Slava served it up to the guests at her house and IT WAS STILL WARM, PEOPLE.
Rave reviews from everyone else, but Jason hadn’t taken a slice.
I managed to shrug it off; I knew it would be better for Jason not to try the pie than to have him try it and have it fall drastically short of his mother’s lauded pie. But lo, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him cut a slice of pie.
Moments later, he leaned over, put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You know this is saying something when I tell you this. This is good.”
Somewhere, angels began to sing.