1 tsp Cinnamon
Pinch of salt
3 TBS Honey
Crust ( 2 cups flour, 1 cup butter, ½ cup water)
I spent my youth in the branches of an old apple tree. Apples will be first. They deliver the essence, the foundation of what the following years are based on. They are the first thing you will taste, like childhood itself…nostalgic…familiar…pure.
We stood in his mother’s kitchen while Cinnamon rolls baked for Christmas morning. The spice lingered in the air. Cinnamon is still alluring and comforting, never dull, just as magical as that first kiss many years ago.
She was 92 on the winter morning she passed away, 92 years of flavors and stories…gone. For her I will add a pinch of salt, like the taste of tears that still come to me every time I tie on her apron.
We took over the farm after his accident. He could no longer drive but he could be in the berries, here he found refuge. The Blackberries are for him. Blackberries have to be cut down to become stronger, they have to go through a frost to grow better, they have to wait patiently on the vine to ripen from the sun and grow from the rain, becoming the strongest flavor of all.
My belly grew and so did the life inside me. He was born on a Saturday, as the bell rang for the Farmer’s Market. All I could breath was his sweet smell, like fresh honey. Honey that had been grown and tended to by the bees, kept warm and safe until it was ready to be shared. Just as my sweet baby boy.
Lay in a crust. Cover. Bake at a low temp until bubbling over. Serve to all you love. And enjoy.
|5 year old me in my apple tree.|