An Apple a Day
“Mommy, when are you going to bake the pies?”
I was a rising nine-year old when my family moved from the Bronx to Franklin Lakes, New Jersey. I was ill-prepared for the cultural differences, let alone the environmental differences. I was no longer consumed by the raucous honking of car horns at any given time in the evening or the loud clamoring of kids banging against metal poles with whatever entertained them for the moment. I didn’t get to see “rift raft”, as my mom called them, hanging out on the corner of our building, sitting in a worked over couch just to share a pack of Kings. There was now a dark stillness and the song of crickets that met me. I didn’t know how to sing alongside them and there were no bars on my windows to convince me that I was safe. It was just me and a screen that separated me from the night.
On the weekends, in the daytime, I could be found nestled in our den window, sifting between wooden panels that separated the glass and a good book. Outside of our window was an apple tree. She was stunning and tall with thick, climbable branches. I was brave enough in heart to climb her but I never felt like I had a reason to do so. My family loved apples, but we didn’t have an affinity for the ones she grew. They were a greenish red and tasted more sour with a hint of sweet and did not seem form fitted for a quick bite or a snack in my lunchbox.
One day my aunt ventured into the kitchen and stared out our kitchen window.
“I think I’ll make apple pie today.”
My eyes lit up because I finally had a reason to climb the tree. Although experienced in climbing the monkey bars and jumping across skinny panels of concrete, I never journeyed a tree of her type. Fruit didn’t grow on my Bronx trees. We bought them instead.
“Jovan, do you think you can climb that tree and get me a few apples?”
“I sure can.”
I put on my sneakers and made sure my hands were free of anything that might cause me to slip. Vaseline was a staple in my family’s house. Me and my cousins were admonished to never sit around the house or come outside looking like we were kicking flour. Ashiness was unacceptable whether or not we were around other people. I opened the front door and confidently pushed the glass screen panel open. I trotted down four steps and stood in front of the tree, examining where I was needed to plant my first step. I secretly hoped she’d accept me and allow me to some of her fruit. Growing up with Cherokee heritage had a way of making me acknowledge the land and it’s fruit in a way my friends did not.
I mounted the tree and planted one foot, reaching to grab hold to her wide branch. I raised my foot again to replant it before raising my arm to reach for the next height of the branch. My footing was strong so I secured a place to lean while reaching to grab the seemingly ripe apples and tossed them to the ground. I didn’t strategize a way to collect them so the ground had to do. Once I tossed the last of what I thought was more than enough apples for my aunt to core and peel, I reverse planted my foot to descend her trunk and when I felt closer to the ground, I took a giant leap off the tree, away from the loose apples, and safely landed in the grass.
This was the moment I was thrusted back to when my daughter asked me when I was going to bake the apple pies using the Cortland apples we picked from an orchard two weeks prior. They were nestled in a recyclable bag for about two weeks, atop our kitchen counter. I did not have capacity to peel, core, and cut them up for baking. I was consumed with adulting and it felt like another task I needed to add to my list versus another opportunity to just rest in connection, closeness, and creativity.
I stared at the bag before dumping its contents into the sink. I flipped the faucet on and watched the water ping from the skin of the apples to the flat of the sink’s silver walls. I laughed and allowed myself to lean into a full circle moment. It caused me to see that there is so much we allow our lives to be consumed with before realizing that we won’t get the time back. We don’t get do overs of memories, but we get to recreate moments of intimacy from genuine inquiry. I was not even sure I would succeed at baking the pie because I had never attempted apple pie before. I was only a sweet potato pie master in the making so apple pie felt intimidating. The alleged great, American dessert became a point of self-assessment and accountability.
I knew how important it was for me to be a woman of my word. I knew that were I to let those apples brown without having baked them, my daughter would not have witnessed my faith in action. It doesn’t appear to be that deep, but faith isn’t just about speaking about what we believe is possible but is also about demonstrating what we hope for evidence of. She wanted to bake with me and I wanted to try something new. It was the perfect set up for God to show me that I could do anything I put my heart to. And so I did…
I peeled and cored twelve apples with limited, but focused energy. I took my time slicing them before mixing them into a bowl of lemon juice, nutmeg, cinnamon, raw sugar, and flour. The smell of cinnamon wafted throughout the kitchen and I became excited about what would come of the once intimidating feat.
The pies browned nicely and I stood in awe at how much could be accomplished with the small belief that I could bake something new and remember what it felt like to climb an apple tree at the same time. I believe that’t the activity of faith: it gives us the motivation to believe for a thing we once doubted and to recall the evidence of thing we did because we believed. So, while my daughter cannot say that she climbed an apple tree to pick apples on my behalf, she now knows how to bake an apple pie because I believed I could and did.
One apple of faith a day keeps the doubt away…
