Apple Pie – a family story by Rockin’ Eco Hero – Steve Trash
I have several apple trees in my front yard.
Technically speaking, they’re not apple trees at all, they are pear trees.
They produce pears, not apples, but trust me, they are apple trees. I planted them. I watered them. I grew them. I know exactly what they are, they are apple trees.
Sometime around 1960, way out in west Texas, my Mom and Dad got married. Newlyweds do lots of things. They figure out how to live in close proximity to another living breathing human being. They also, if it’s going to be a good marriage, spend a lot of time looking for ways to make their new partner’s life better.
My newlywed Mom decided she’d try to cook “just like my dad’s mom”. She asked my dad, “What was the favorite thing your mom cooked for you?” He thought a moment, and responded, “You know, Mama used to bake the most amazing apple pie. I’d love to have that again. I haven’t had it since I was a kid. Could you try and bake that?”
Challenge accepted, my Mom dove right in to making my Grandmothers’ excellent apple pie for her newlywed
husband. Now, apple pie (made from scratch) is pretty simple. It’s time-consuming but it’s not hard to make. Easy win, or so my Mom thought. She got everything together to bake a “home-made” apple pie for her new husband.
She mixed. She baked. She served. She waited. My dad’s response? “Oh this is really good apple pie, Honey, but it’s not as good as my Mom’s apple pie.” My Mom thought, “Rats… I’ll try again”. So she did. Same result. Good, but not as good as my Grandmothers’ apple pie. One more try. Same result, good, but not as good.
Frustrated, my Mom took the problem straight to the source. She phoned my grandmother up and said, “I’m trying to
make your special apple pie for Will, but I just can’t seem to get it right. Did you have some kind of “secret ingredient” or “bake it in some special way”? My grandmother (a gentle and very very kind person) began to laugh.
She laughed out loud and said, “Betty… you will NEVER be able to make my apple pie.” My mother was taken-a-back by this response. My grandmother continued, pausing to catch her breath, “Because I never used apples. I used pears.
Years and years ago, a traveling salesman broke a wheel near our home, we fixed it for him, and he paid us back with pear tree saplings. When Wilbur (pronounced Wil-Bu if you’re from south Alabama) was a boy, he didn’t like pears. He wouldn’t eat pears, but I didn’t have anything but pears to bake pies with, so I told him a little tiny “white lie”. I told him the pear pie was an apple pie. He loved those pies. I never had the heart to tell him otherwise.”
Years and years passed, as did (eventually) my dad. And my mother would dust-off this old family chestnut from her mental filing cabinet of happy memories and share it with us kids. We’d all get a great laugh out of it too. She loved telling that story, and she was good at it.
More years passed, and eventually she passed too.
So I planted that tree out front, and here’s the deal, sometimes a pear tree is not a pear tree at all, it’s an apple tree. It’s an apple tree because it’s keeping alive a story of family, of newlyweds, of laughter, of love, of a little white lie about a much loved Grandmothers’ pie.
Every time I walk past that pear tree in my front yard nowadays… those people, that story, that love, that laughter, that history, that moment in time, all come back to life for me.
They aren’t gone, they live in those apples.
So, to me, it’s always going to be an apple tree, it can’t be anything else. Know what? I think I’ll go bake an apple pie.
Anybody want some apple pie?
