The Cinnamon-y Therapist

Why—and how—to make an apple pie

Photo by Leighann Blackwood on Unsplash

I made an apple pie this morning, and it reminded me of a piece I wrote a long time ago called How to Make an Apple Pie. I thought I’d share it here today instead of what I was going to write, which was a little story about Santa Claus walking into a bar. Maybe I’ll do that one next time. Anyway, here’s the apple pie piece. So to speak.

Oh, just say you’ve had it. Say you’ve had it with these times. Slump into a chair and close your eyes. Ask for comfort.

See a vision: You, standing at the kitchen table, when it was the same height as your chin. You are looking under the table to admire your mother‘s clunky high heels that let her big toes stick out a little, as well as her nylon stockings that whisper when she walks. When you finally look up, sick with longing to be a woman yourself, you see your mother peeling apples for a pie. A long red ribbon of skin dangles and grows longer. When it finally breaks, you can have it. Then you will take it to your eating place— under a table, behind a chair, or behind a closed closet door. You will hum softly while you chew, and finger the surface of whatever is closest to you.

Open your eyes. Say, “We’ll, why not?” and go into the kitchen. Turn the radio on to the station that plays 40s music. Hear the middle of Chattanooga Choo Choo and feel your spirits lifting already. Head toward the cupboard for the white bowl with a blue stripe around it. Put it on the kitchen table. Line up some good green apples right by the bowl, six of them. Go and get the peeler, the old one shoved in the back of the kitchen drawer. start to peel the apples, and then remember something.