It seems like Ive been writing a lot about food lately, but thats only because I have been. As the season changes from summer to fall my Norwegian/German/Bohemian genetics want me to put on winter insulating pudge. How can I deny my heritage?
Were going to have a robust apple crop this year, and I just made my first pie of the season. Right now the smells of cinnamon, apple, and nutmeg saturate my senses with pleasure. Walking into the kitchen envelopes me with memories of Grandmas house and all the great food she prepared. To this day nobody makes a better pie crust than she did. Nobody. And I keep trying!
My husband was giddy when he saw the pie on the counter. I had just drizzled caramel sauce over the hot crust and was licking my finger from an accidental spill. Sweet husband, sweet pie, sweet life. It was the best part of my day.