That’s what left after Pie Day, spotted and bruised and bug-tunneled in the veg bin of the fridge. Lily, John and I made three pies and a couple of tartlets. At their wedding in June I recited a composition (such a dignified word) predicting that in a few years with John at the helm of the processor our crusts would be the envy of town. I was wrong only in time frame: he made the crusts and showed me what I have been doing wrong for years: adding too much water. I was so vigilant about not overworking the crust I over hydrated them. Hence leather.
I was delighted to get home from Africa to find there were enough apples remaining on the tree to satisfy both real and imaginary appetites. The imagined scarcity. What with rats (I surmise) squirrels (definitely) and blue jays (sometimes five at once on the roof) my worries weren’t totally unfounded. I picked all but a few. The veg bin was loaded.
Now I am down to the lowest, borderline appalling layer. I pull out the paring knife. There are enough of these deplorable ones with enough salvageable bits to make a nice gift for neighbors Janet and KC, who forsake the pie with its glutenous crust. (Oh what they are missing.)
The act of salvage brings to mind my mother who one summer, having a bountiful apricot harvest for a change (almost every year the blossoms froze), cut up each apricot, discarding the worm that was in almost all, and made an apricot butter. It was one of the best things ever.