Apple of My Eye

The moment the leaves begin to turn and the air gets a little crisp, I start planning my annual apple orchard visit. I collect a car-full or two of friends, find a Saturday that works for all of us, and scout a nearby orchard. Now this selection of our destination for a few hours of apple picking, meandering, and eating is serious business, and I have a short list of criteria to find the perfect spot.

I love an orchard that grows heirloom apples like the Arkansas Black (which, hence the name, is almost black in color), Blue Permain or the Newton Pippin. These are usually rare, old, regional varieties whose seeds have all but been lost due to industrial agriculture. Though they can be finicky to grow or ship, they almost have the best flavor. Out of all heirloom varieties, though, I give special preference to the Northern Spy, which in my opinion is the best baking apple you can find. If an orchard doesn’t carry Northern Spies or other heirlooms, I’ll settle for the standard Mcintosh, Gala, or Braeburn, all of which will make a fine pie. And of course, I make sure that the orchard actually allows visitors to pick the apples, as wandering through the rows, climbing a tree for the highest (and surely the tastiest apple) and throwing cores at your friends is clearly half the fun.

Read on in Luri & Wilma

The Pies of Late Summer

My dad used to sing to me an old folk song before I went to sleep. One of my favorite verses went:

Peach in the summertime, apples in the fall.

If I can't have the one I love, I won't have none at all.

I still like that lyric for its simplicity and its assertion of seasonal eating at a time when that was unquestioned. You ate fresh apples in the fall (and probably storage apples through the winter) and peaches all summer. Love could be fleeting and unreliable, but autumn apples and summer peaches would always be there.

That little girl who was serenaded each night with words of lost love and fruit grew up to have a pie obsession. I write a pie blog, bake at least once a week, and collect old pie paraphernalia, heritage recipes and family stories. In a way, that old verse explains this obsession. Though I have many reasons for loving the classic dessert — its ties to tradition and the past, its association with women home cooks and, of course, its deliciousness — one of the main reasons I like pie is because maybe more than any other dish, it is dependent on season.

Read on via NPR

The Mulberry's The Worst Berry There Ever Was! →

There’s a recording I came across one day while browsing the archives of the American Folklife Center. The tape is not old—it was recorded in 1995—but if you didn’t know that, you could guess that it was from any time, really. There’s a slight tape hiss and the West Virginia accents from Kenny and Martha Pettry are thick. They’re talking about berry pies that Kenny’s mother used to make, and he lists them off in a cadence, pausing between each one. “Yea, my mother made pies out of mulberries. Blueberries. Blackberries. Huckleberries.” Then Martha interjects, “I just never did care for no mulberries.” The two talk over each other for a bit and she exclaims, “The mulberry’s the worst berry there ever was!”

Now how could this be true? I was worried, listening to the undoubted berry wisdom of these mountain dwellers. Because though it sounds silly to say, Martha Pettry’s least favorite berry played a crucial role in some of my most foundational experiences. Or, the mulberry was a the grounding force of the one glorious season in which I found myself falling into the rest of my life. 

Essay originally appeared on the now-defunct Gilt Taste. Copy available via Internet Archive

Pi(e) R Squared Revolution is Round

Story and Photographs by Emily Hilliard and Lora Smith

LORA:  I wasn’t sure what I thought about Emily when I first met her. She's smart, witty, a great baker, has an extensive knowledge of avant-garde artists, wears vintage dresses over brightly colored tights with covetableboots, is always coming or going from an adventure, knits a mean scarf, can play guitar, fiddle, and sing.

I briefly considered hating her.

But that quickly changed over a pot of hot apple butter. After a trip to pick apples in the mountains, Emily invited me over to help put up them up. It wasn’t the best batch of apple butter that either of us have made, but it didn’t matter. As we peeled and cored the apples, grated ginger, fumbled in the spice cabinet to find anise, clove and cinnamon, and measured sugar, Emily’s tiny and modestly outfitted graduate student kitchen in downtown Carborro, North Carolina expanded to hold layers of memory, time and stories. By the time we were ready to jar, the butter wasn’t as thick as we’d hoped, but our friendship had found a perfect set.

EMILY: That first food project set the tone for the rest of our friendship. Though we’ve since hiked mountains in Kentucky, stumbled through clogging lessons together, and spent many-a-night out at the bar (but not too many, mind you!), the times I think we’ve felt the closest, shared the most secrets, hopes, and future plans, is in the kitchen—preparing, enjoying, and sharing food.

Read on in Zenchilada