Apple Pie
Pick four big apples from Grandad’s old Bramley,
the one leaning against the shed.
You remember, he used to sit there
smoking his pipe, thinning the seedlings
dahlias, chrysants, lettuce and peas.
Peel the apples. Look how long the peel is.
We used to compete, see who had
the longest peel. Grandma always won.
Slice them, put them in water,
add lemon so they don’t go brown.
Rub the flour, butter and eggs together.
Use Grandma’s yellow stoneware bowl,
the one she used to make the wedding cake
so carefully, with rationing so difficult,
adding carrots for sweetness.
Spread the pastry on the old wooden board
your father brought back from the war,
a gift from a grateful mother, reunited
with her children, her man
still missing, presumed dead.
Lay the pastry in the old baking dish
Dad’s mother gave us. Apples and pears
so brightly painted. Press the sides,
the bottom, make sure there’s no air.
Lay the apples on the pastry.
Now put on the lid. Make a small hole
to avoid an explosion in the oven.
Not like your fatherwho thought
he knew how to cook everything
after camping with the scouts.
Crimp the pastry edges together.
Use your fingertips. Yes
it is like a pinch, but this time
it’s OK. No, you can’t pinch your sister.
This is cooking, it’s different.
Brush some beaten egg over the top.
Put the pie dish in the oven and wait.
Lay the table; best china today.
I don’t have a recipe. My Mum taught me,
like I’m teaching you.
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