#3 An Apple Pie
The rhythmic sound. A slight crunch with just enough sweetness. The warmth from the open window. And light from beyond the curtains. His apron full of apple peel rings, and scattered 'cross the floor. And all on the table, so many many more. His brown boots surrounded by gold and red alike, and pieces of other things mingled in the light. The buzz from humming a slightly off key tune, matching up with the swishing broom
Getting up from his seat, and the peels falling to the floor. He carried a large wooden bowl, out the door. Walking round the white farm house, sitting down out back. He picked up from the garden, herbs and bric-a-brac. Seasoning his dish of apple rings, he headed back inside to finish up things.
The crust was ready, the oven was bright. And there was to be sure, to be pie tonight.
So to be sure that this is the story of an apple that made it to pie. The tale of a man, who had but one skill.
To make the one and only very best, apple pie.
-Mae
Getting up from his seat, and the peels falling to the floor. He carried a large wooden bowl, out the door. Walking round the white farm house, sitting down out back. He picked up from the garden, herbs and bric-a-brac. Seasoning his dish of apple rings, he headed back inside to finish up things.
The crust was ready, the oven was bright. And there was to be sure, to be pie tonight.
So to be sure that this is the story of an apple that made it to pie. The tale of a man, who had but one skill.
To make the one and only very best, apple pie.
-Mae
Comments
Post a Comment