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View from the Summit The Labor of Our Fruits I had a giddy sense of anticipation to see the driver, my grandmother. Her nature was always calm and caring. She had driven the five miles from town, where she lived in a house the color of banana cream pie. Tulips and petunias grew in the front flowerbed; peonies along the side, while thick-leafed, potted plants grew in the sunny livingroom. The plants, similar to jade, were freckled with half moon-shaped gouges on the leaves. They were shiny and looked so artificial it was impossible for us not to sink our fingernails into their flesh to establish authenticity. The house was located just across the street from our church and school—a Catholic grade and high school. Each Sunday after church, my family of seven loaded into the Ford LTD, ambled down the church hill and up the next to visit her. Once at her house, the adults discussed pressing matters such as who moved into the house next to the Hanson’s, how Phyllis ended up in the hospital, and when the funeral services would be for our second cousin, once removed, who had just passed after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s. Meanwhile, each of us kids busied ourselves playing in the basement with the stacks of egg cartons, cardboard boxes, or other simple, old-fashioned toys; reading the “funnies” and ads in the Sunday Leader, vandalizing innocent houseplants, or waiting patiently for the grand finale. When sensing the visit was about to close, we migrated to the corner cabinet next to the sink. On parting ways, we were each allowed one piece of candy. Careful to never move too quickly, or otherwise appear overly anxious, we feared that the sugar gift would be withdrawn. At last, the container came out and we poured, painstakingly, over the assortment. Sometimes, the choice was limited to a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum. Sometimes, the choices were downright decadent with York’s peppermint patties or a Little Debbie’s nutty bar. My grandmother eased the Buick to a halt in the shade of a tree behind our house. The car had only the basics, like an AM radio. But with no air conditioning, it was especially vulnerable to the intense South Dakota summer heat. It was also taupe in color, the same as the dust and coincidentally the same as the Wrigley’s pulled out of her purse and offered me as I escorted her to the house. She entered, equipped with her own paring knife. Most of the paring knives I had seen in my short life were of simple “Pioneer” steel blades embedded into smooth, cream-colored plastic handles. These were gifts from the seed corn company. Even today, I am very protective of my one Pioneer knife. Everything was ready for the day’s work. My mother and I had gathered and washed the windfall apples. There was plenty of flour and Crisco on hand. In addition to paring knives, Pioneer rewarded farmers—and their wives—with thick, plastic food storage bags, perfect for freezing. And there were plenty of large freezer bags when these run out. Space was cleared in one of the two upright freezers in the basement to take on the sixty or so seasonal pies that would eventually occupy them. For the most part, only the southernmost of our four apple trees produced a significant crop. The others produce apples that, while splendidly sour, were small, requiring a dozen or more to make a medium-sized pie. The windfalls alone from our best tree yielded a couple laundry basketfuls. These apples were beautiful, despite the bruises from falling to the grassed ground below: as big as grapefruits and deliciously, sweetly tart. My father constructed a device for picking apples from the high branches. It looked like Captain Hook’s metal arm, though extremely long. The hook was really a pair of hooks, designed to straddle an apple’s stem. Welded to the hook appendage was a metal ring and a long post, like the extension of a paint roller. Around the ring was sewn a fabric tube, down which a picked apple would fall. I thought my dad was a genius. I could scarcely resist using the apple picker despite strict rules prohibiting access of any live apple if any were available on the ground. Apples picked and cleaned, we formed the assembly line. My mom prepared the dough—a recipe known to a select few in my hometown. It resulted in a delicious, flaky crust. Each batch was to yield six crusts; enough for three fruit pies. My grandma put her Pioneer to work—peeling, coring, and slicing apples for the filling. I had the task of rolling the dough into crusts without overworking it, which would otherwise result in a cardboard-like texture. The bottom crust lined the pie plate and the top crust covered the pie filling. A smear of water between the two crusts sealed the pie and a simple, decorative edge created a dam of sorts that kept the filling from overflowing during baking. In recent years, I’ve grown admittedly sentimental about pies. Fruit pies are my favorite dessert, and make wonderful breakfasts, too They also bring back those days of pie-making with my mother and my grandmother. Even more, the pies—a product of our land—provided the centerpiece for family and friends in a place and time where there is always room for dessert. And now I share these recipes, the warm summer labor of our windfallen fruit, with you. Enjoy.
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