Apple Pie

"Here's your slice of apple pie, darling."

I stared it down. The small plate was almost pouring over with pie, crumble filling the corners that the pie itself wasn't inhabiting. Most people I knew ate apple pie à la mode, but I liked it plain. There was no reason to make the crust soggy when it was supposed to have that little crisp. Gran's recipe was recognized in our little town as the best. The local diner had tried to bribe the recipe out of her for years. Her sweet smile had forced the wrinkles in her cheeks to become even bigger as she chuckled, "I'm taking that to the grave, honey."

The steam of the pie almost looked animated. Gran always served apple pie on the second of advent. It was her special treat. "We've made it halfway to Christmas. That should be celebrated."

I knew none like her. None that would celebrate something so irrelevant. But I found myself counting down to Apple Advent a little more than I did for Christmas. It had none of the drama that Christmas posed. Had everyone gotten enough presents? Would there be enough food? How was the seating to be arranged? Instead, Apple Advent was: Take your plate, fill it with apple pie, pick a game and laugh until your cheeks hurt. You can't tell me that doesn't sound great. That you wouldn't have joined, if we invited you too.

I always came over earlier than anyone else. I cherished the first hour with Gran and myself the most. She always made a 'tester pie,' that's what she called it, ha. But it was just so that we could eat the whole thing before the rest of the party came, without anyone noticing that we'd just inhaled an entire pie ourselves.

We sat in her cottage. I had just turned on the fireplace while she had been making the table. "Here's your slice of apple pie, darling."

We played Rummy. It is her favorite game. "How's it going with you, Tom? How's life?" I laughed. She always asked this question. Even if I had been there a week before. Even if I had been there just a day before. "It's good Gran. Better with this pie. Trust me, nothing beats this."

I burned my tongue on the first bite. Blowing hot air in and out of my mouth while Gran crinkled her nose and told me that her daughter should have taught me better eating manners. I'd purposely let a little slice of crust fall out of my mouth, onto her red-and-white checkered tablecloth. I'd always told her that cloth was diner like, she had answered that it was easier to clean. Especially since I couldn't keep food inside my mouth.

She stood up, reaching for her cane to get to the kitchen. I hated that cane. It reminded me that she wasn't immortal. That she was much older than me. She opened the fridge to bring out a box of ice tea. She might be the apple pie making Grandma, but trust me, where the shortcuts made sense, she would make them. She brought the box to the table and poured us both a glass. "The rest of the party will be here soon, we should soon wash up this pan." I nodded. Gran wasn't perfect. She and grandpa had had a great life together. They had both made mistakes. They both had tempers. But in many ways, their life and relationship had inspired me more than any other. They chose one another through thick and thin. Through pain, tears and sorrow. They had always chosen one another. Then grandpa died and Gran was devastated. I started visiting more. And now, I couldn't imagine visiting less.

"I got it." I stood up and started scrubbing the pan. "Did you buy ice cream this year, Gran?" I asked, teasingly. "Hell no." She said. I laughed. "No one vandalizes my apple pie."

I had been here yesterday and helped her collect apples from her yard. Her and grandpa had planted an apple tree when they first bought and moved into the cottage. It had grown four meters tall and become so big that it was supplying her next door neighbor with apples too. She definitely wasn't complaining about it. The apples were big, green and juicy. Gran had gotten too old to collect them herself, so instead, she'd call me and promise the taster pie for the next day, and a cup of ice tea for now. She didn't have to bribe me though. I always, excitedly, waited for her call.

Now, the rest of the party had arrived and we were sitting around the table in the living room instead. I had so much apple pie, my stomach was in severe pain, but all the laughter and the warmth filled the room and trust me, not even a heating pad could have been a better remedy. I wasn't necessarily the chatty type, so after half of an apple pie and a couple slices more, I would find myself dozing off in the presence of her friends and our family. Gran had this ability. Her home was a place of rest. No matter what happened, you'd find warmth here. I closed my eyes for a second to take it all in. The warmth, the laughter, the smell of apple pie. Just a second.

"Here's your slice of apple pie, darling." I opened my eyes. The server wandered away hastily. The slice was small on the big plate. The crust was soaking up the vanilla ice cream that I had asked to be removed, making it all soggy and wet. It was Gran's recipe. On the board it said: "Famous Local Apple Pie à la mode."

It tasted bland. The crust was not crispy, the apples were not local. The place had ten of them on the counter and the steam from my slice came from the microwave that I had heard beeping in the distance. I stared it down. "Happy Apple Advent," I said to myself as I glared at the pie, took a sip of my ice tea, and walked out of the quiet empty diner.