The last time I held a rolling pin in my hands was in her kitchen. The small space heated by the oven. Our bare feet on the linoleum despite the snow falling gently outside. Fingers sticky with butter and flour that lodged between every crack and wrinkle. My mother’s hands. Pushing and pulling and rolling into place. My mother’s hands. Thin like paper yet indestructible. Smiles on our faces. Her skin scented sweet with musk. My movements clumsy but learning. That would be the last time we would ever stand together and make this pie.

I come from a long line of women who bake. Women who have secrets not written down. Women who love through Sunday suppers and pie dough. The role this Apple Crumb Pie had in my childhood seems ridiculous when I think about it, but it was important. This pie was a big deal for all of us. Today I made it for the first time. Today, my home smells like that home. It’s amazing what some sliced apples and sugar and cinnamon can do to your soul.