A Home Where Apple Pies Are Born
The removal van has just left, my parents have wished me well and said their goodbyes. I’m alone as I unpack in my new home and memories surface like bubbles in a glass of lemonade as I remember Saturday mornings at home. It was the time my Mother baked her apple pies, ‘’every one’s favourite’’.
Apples would cover the table with square cores slowly on the turn alongside ribbons of red and green peel, flour misting the air, our home filled with an anthem of aromas.
I can see my Mother now, baking on her Mother’s table that bore the scars of being lovingly scrubbed and cared for. My Mother loved that table; it was the hub of our home and in a strange way that table seemed to be connected to everything that happened in our home.
I remember one particular Saturday playing outside and I came back in pretending I needed a drink of water.
What’s the matter, my Mother asked, who have you been fighting with?
I remember asking myself, how does my mother know these things?
I didn’t start it, I remembered spurting excitedly, it was Cliff Moody, he kicked the football into Mrs. Price’s garden and wouldn’t get it.
Go knock on Mrs. Price’s door, ask politely, may I get the ball, here, take these apple cores, share them with Cliff and make friends.
I think of how a handful of apple cores mended a friendship, the smell of apple pies filling every room, and of course a magical table that brought everything together to make a home, a Home.