Junk

Apple Pie

As I entered the kitchen, I smelt something delicious. Apples, cinnamon and nutmeg. The formula for something delicious. Apple pie! I see my grandma busy cutting Granny Smith apples. It shocks me how such a sour and tangy fruit can become so delicious in a pie. It is magic! My grandma's baking is out of this world. Don't just think I am just telling you this. She wins competitions with her pumpkin pie. Alas, my favourite is apple.

The kitchen is warm and cozy. It makes me feel comforted. I sit at the table and look with surprise at one finished apple pie. It is calling for me. It is fresh out the oven with steam still rising out of the golden, sugar-topped crust. As fast lightning, I grab a plate, fork and knife. I eagerly pull the plate toward me. It's hot, but nothing I can't handle. My grandma's knowing smile makes me even more eager to get the delicious apple pie in my stomach.

As I plunge the knife into the pie, breaking the serenity and peace, a cloud of steam envelops me. It is like the steam that explodes from a geyser. As a perfect piece of pie comes on the knife, I inspect it. I am like a detective looking for clues at the scene of a murder crime.  It is indeed perfect. Golden, crunchy and hard to the touch. When I tap it, the pie makes a soft, full sound. You can still see the big, sugar-crystals nestled on top. I can see the apple chunks, yellow and layered. Imperfect and yet, perfect. I grab my fork and dig in. Mouth watering and tantalizingly delicious. I can taste all the flavours. It is the perfect combination. I can smell the spices wafting and dancing in the air. I can feel the nutmeg and cinnamon particles clinging to me, trying to make me feel warm for as long as possible. I am comforted. This is what home feels like. I know as soon as I leave the kitchen, I will still smell like apple pie for hours on end. This is what a grandmas' love is.