September 7, 2007

Apple Pie
By Cindy Rosenthal

Sense memory is a powerful thing. The damp smell of fall always reminds Daniel of getting on the school bus when he was ten. Oranges make him think of sangria, which makes him think of getting happily and unintentionally drunk in Barcelona. Wood smoke makes him think of Vermont, which makes him think of skiing, which makes him think of getting ambushed by about a thousand snowballs. The scent of wood smoke is always followed by an involuntary shiver in remembrance of the snow that ended up down the back of his jacket and in his pants. The separate smells of propane and burnt marshmallow remind him of his younger sister Amy and the time she talked him into making s’mores over the gas grill.

And coffee, freshly-brewed coffee, will always be a Nash smell.

Which is why, when Daniel lets himself into a house that smells strongly of French Roast, he isn’t surprised to find Nash in the kitchen with a full coffee pot and an empty mug. He is however surprised that Nash seems to be up to his elbows in pie filling. The glass pie dish and bowl full of apple peels are a dead giveaway. Nash also seems to have gotten flour in his hair.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asks curiously.

“I am baking a pie,” Nash tells him. He’s industriously mixing the filling with a wooden spoon but turns his head to grin at Daniel.

“Why?”

“Neil bet me I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can do everything else.”

Nash’s grin widens. Daniel rolls his eyes. Nash turns back to his pie filling. Daniel gets tangled in the strap of his messenger bag trying to take it off and eventually manages to divest himself of jacket and bag and sit at the kitchen table. Nash’s laptop is open on the table with a recipe pulled up on the screen. Daniel peers at it.

“Is this an excuse to buy a baking dish?” he asks. Any excuse to buy something new is a good one, as far as Nash is concerned.

“This is an excuse to bake a pie.”

“It looks really easy. I’m surprised you didn’t pick something more complicated.”

“It was Neil’s idea.”

“What did you bet him?”

“Nothing. If the pie comes out right, and it will, Neil will wash the car for me.”

“Nash….”

“Daniel?”

“Neil likes washing the car. That’s not a good bet.”

“He’ll also make dinner.” Nash finishes mixing his filling, wipes his hands on his t-shirt, and opens the fridge. Daniel watches him take out a ball of dough wrapped in plastic wrap, unwrap it, cover the countertop in flour, and roll out the dough with what looks like a brand-new marble rolling pin.

“You made the crust too?” Daniel asks. Although he shouldn’t be surprised, because when Nash gets it in his head to try something new, he does as much of it himself as he can.

“Of course. Didn’t I tell you I could do everything?” He grins over his shoulder. Daniel rolls his eyes again. “Besides, you cannot buy a ten-inch pie shell for love or money. Both of which I have in abundance.”

“Just don’t have it all over the pie, ok?”

“Why Daniel, I thought you liked a little food with your lovin’.”

“That was one time, and the whipped cream was your idea, not mine.”

“You don’t want me to cover you with apple pie and lick every bit of it off?”

Daniel doesn’t have to see Nash’s face to know the guy is grinning his most wicked, most sneaky grin.

“No,” he says. Nash heaves a sigh.

“Push the pie pan over here,” Nash demands, abruptly switching tacks. “My hands are full of dough.” Daniel gets up to move the pie dish closer to the pie crust. Nash cuts the dough, presses it into the glass dish, dumps the filling in, and lays a second crust over the top. By the time the crust has been crimped and three slits have been cut in the top and the whole thing has been shoved in the oven, Daniel has to admit that he’s pretty impressed. He even tells Nash so.

“If you’re impressed now,” Nash says, sweeping the dirty bowls, utensils, and rolling pin into the sink, “just wait until it’s done. Now you were saying something about whipped cream?”

Forty minutes later the kitchen smells like warm apples and cinnamon and baking pastry, and Daniel wonders if the scent of hot apple pie will forever after make him think of Nash’s mouth and Nash’s hands and Nash’s cock and the way Nash’s hair feels tangled in his fingers. There are worse memories to attach to a pie.

Uncle Dick’s Thanksgiving Apple Pie (properly called Michigan Apple Pie)

Recipe for a 10” pie, double crust

3 lbs Mackintosh apples, peeled, cored, and sliced
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
1 tbsp cornstarch
3 tbsp tapioca
1/4 tsp nutmeg
raisins
1 tbsp apple jelly dissolved in 1/4 cup applejack or bourbon

Mix ingredients and pour into 10” pie shell. Cover with second crust, crimp edges, and cut a couple slits in the top. Bake at 400? for 70 minutes.

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Today's Scavenger Hunt Clue- Chris Owen's button is hiding in the shade.