This is a short story that I wrote based on an event that happened to me when I was younger. It’s about Thanksgiving, but hey, it’s only been a few days! Enjoy, and let me know what you think. 🙂
You didn’t peel the apples!
The whole house smelled like cinnamon and cranberries. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I was determined to help out.
I began to scour the kitchen for something I could make to bring along to my grandparent’s house. After opening the fridge for what seemed like the tenth time, I spotted it. There, in the corner of the refrigerator drawer, lay four perfectly golden apples. Absolutely delighted, I lifted them out of the drawer and raised myself on my toes to place them on the countertop.
Standing on a chair, I rose to the cabinet that housed our cookbooks. I pulled down the large, but loyal, Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook and attempted to locate a suitable recipe for apple pie. I gave quite the valiant try, but alas! I was not successful.
“Oh well,” I said to myself. “Who needs cookbooks anyway? How hard could it be to make an apple pie?”
The aforementioned cookbook did contain a recipe for an “Easy Oil Pie Crust,” and being quite a rational child, this is what I began with. I began to combine my ingredients in a medium mixing bowl. Crack! One egg. Splash! Half a cup of water. Poof! The flour dusted my eyelashes as I roughly dumped it in.
Once my crust was thoroughly kneaded and placed in my pie dish, I lined my four apples in a row, ready for the slaughter. Wielding my blade, I cored my apples and they were quickly drawn and quartered. I tossed the slices with some sugar and spice, and carefully laid them in between the crusts.
The oven was set for three hundred and seventy five degrees Fahrenheit, I plopped the pie into the heated chamber. Within half an hour, my precious pie returned to me perfectly golden and steaming.
Thanksgiving morning, I proudly loaded my dessert into our family-size minivan, alongside my mother’s pumpkin pie and my coloring book. I brought the pie into my grandparent’s home and presented it to my grandmother. She was very impressed, and she put it out with the other members of the last course.
Once we had eaten our fill of turkey, sweet potatoes, and biscuits, the treats were situated on the table. There were several kinds of pie, cookies from my aunt, and chocolates that my grandfather bought. My impeccable pie was settled in the center, begging to be devoured.
It took some convincing, but I finally got my family to be the judges of my pie. A huge grin passed across my face as they all filled their plates and took their first bites of my creation. I anticipated delectation and showers of compliments about my pastry.
Looking hopefully at my uncle, I saw the first foreboding wince pass across his face. He reluctantly swallowed, and I began interrogating him. “Was it good?” “Did you like it?” I sincerely wanted to know how he thought my pie was, on a scale of great to magnificent. He started to speak, and then stopped. He gingerly took another bite. Slowly munching, his eyes suddenly gleamed with recognition. “You didn’t peel the apples!” He chuckled. My whole family giggled, while assuring me that the pie is actually exquisite. My face flushed with shame at their full plates, abandoned for some trustworthy pumpkin pie.