I didn’t mean to cook.
It was that kind of day—the radiator wheezing like it had opinions, the sky the color of dishwater, Mae texting me about student loan interest rates like I could fix them. I opened the fridge for noise. Found nothing but the usual: a lemon with bite marks (hers, years ago, she was three and curious), a jar of mustard, and a sagging bag of mixed apples I meant to bake into something but didn’t.
The house was cold.
I reached for the apples.
What the Original Looked Like
Her Highness calls for 4 pounds of apples. A trio—Braeburn, Gala, McIntosh. She adds lemon juice and a whisper of dark-brown sugar if you’re sweet-toothed or sentimental. You boil, then simmer. Then mash.
It’s tidy. Calm.
The kind of recipe you could whisper through.
I Changed Two Things (Out of Necessity, Not Brilliance)
I didn’t weigh the apples. Just used what looked like enough to fill the old green Pyrex. Some bruised. One mealy. One smelled like cider. That felt right.
And I added cinnamon. Just a pinch. Not for taste. For memory. (Mae used to sprinkle it on buttered toast and call it “pie bread.” I don’t correct her when she misremembers the name. It’s better that way.)
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
I peeled slowly.
The skins curled around my thumb like ribbon. Threw them into the compost bin, which is still just a mixing bowl with a tea towel over it because I can’t commit to real systems.
Juiced the lemon right over the apples—seeds be damned. The zester clanged against the counter. I thought about Nan. Her pie crusts were always dry, and she blamed the lemons. I never believed her.
Added water. Brought it to a boil.
Watched the steam fog the window that looks out over the yard Mae used to run through with a cape made from an old pillowcase. I stirred like I was casting a spell. I didn’t say it out loud, but I thought it: make me feel better.
The apples collapsed slowly. Some faster than others. The mealy one vanished first. I pressed the mix with the back of a wooden spoon—same one I scorched on the stove last year during that failed marmalade thing.
Didn’t mash. Just stirred.
It softened on its own, like it wanted to become something gentle.
What I Noticed
It smells like forgiveness.
Not dramatic. Just soft. Like a house letting you back in after you slammed the door.
Let it sit. The flavors settle better when you leave them alone.
What Happened After
I ate half of it standing up.
One bowl. No sugar. Just warmth and a spoon.
The rest went into a cracked Tupperware and into the fridge, where I’ll forget it until Thursday and then eat it cold with toast. Or over pancakes. Or straight from the spoon, like medicine.
Would I Make It Again?
Yeah. When I need to stir something and not think.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pot’s still on the stove. Still warm.
So is the kitchen.
For now.
FAQs
Nah. If You Don’T Mind Bits Of Skin, Leave It On. I’Ve Done It Both Ways. Depends On How Tired I Am.
Yep. Just Cool It First. I Throw Mine In Old Yogurt Containers. It Gets A Little Looser When It Thaws, But Still Tastes Like A Memory.
Only If You Want It. I Usually Skip It. Unless The Apples Are Sour Or The Day Feels Sharp.
Of Course. Nan Would Haunt Me If I Didn’T Mention That. Start Small. Trust Your Nose.
Whatever’S Bruising In Your Fruit Bowl. Really. The Mix Matters Less Than The Fact You Made It.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Apple Sauce
Description
Soft, Unsweetened, And Full Of Memory. I Made This Because I Needed Quiet.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Prepare the apples:I peeled and chopped about 4 pounds—some McIntosh, a few that looked like they’d seen better days. One might’ve been a pear. I didn’t ask questions. Cored them with a spoon because I couldn’t find the proper tool (again).
- Cook the apples: Dropped them into the dented Dutch oven with the juice from two lemons—squeezed straight over the pot, seeds and all—and added a splash of water, maybe ¼ cup, maybe more. Turned the heat high until they hissed, then let them simmer down low for half an hour while the house filled with steam and whatever that smell is that means someone cared enough to cook.
- Mash or blend:Used the back of a fork because the masher was dirty and the blender felt like too much. Left it rustic. Soft, with little apple ghosts still floating. Skipped the sugar. Didn’t need it. Mae said it tasted “like Nana’s house, but less weird.”
- Cool and store:Let it sit in the pot while I stood at the window, watching rain slide down the glass. Transferred to jars with mismatched lids. Ate some cold that night with a spoon over the sink. It was better that way.